


if you push yourself then I will pull you on (I will be with you in the fray)

by jellyb34n



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action & Romance, Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Crack Treated Seriously, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, F/M, Minor Character Death, No Incest, Pacific Rim canon-typical violence, References to past sexual harassment, reference to past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:14:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 57,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21692059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellyb34n/pseuds/jellyb34n
Summary: A Pacific Rim fusion fic.When giant monsters emerge from the sea and start attacking coastal cities, Westeros and Essos rally to conceive the only rational response: giant robots. Piloting these robots requires at least two people, neurologically connected through a system called the drift. Eleven years into the battle, circumstances are dire. Marshall Tyrell has a Jaeger in need of pilots, and two unlikely people in mind. It’s time for Brienne to come back, and for Jaime to finally meet his match.Brienne spots the King’s Landing Shatterdome icon on the helicopter’s side. She picks up her pace, her heart pounding.Stomping snow off her boots, she knocks once, opening the door as soon as Catelyn calls for her to enter. Marshal Olenna Tyrell turns in her seat across from Catelyn and smiles as she always does when seeing Brienne."Ah, Tarth,” Olenna says, almost wistful. “Still as marvellous as ever.”Brienne shifts uncomfortably, gives an awkward nod of greeting to the Marshal, then looks to Catelyn.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 187
Kudos: 205





	1. we are made of our smallest thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Pacific Rim and the fact that Brienne and Jaime are definitely, 100% drift compatible.
> 
> This fic is nearly done! It will be ~~7~~ 8 chapters plus an epilogue, barring any major and unexpected edits. A new chapter will go up each Tuesday until complete.  
> Characters, pairings and tags will be updated as we go! The main content warnings will be for future chapters where there are references to past abuse and harassment, and I'll include them in the chapter notes as well as the updated tags. If I've missed anything, please do let me know and I'll update accordingly. I'll always tag for anything anyone requests.
> 
> Some dialogue borrowed from GOT/ASOIAF and Pacific Rim.
> 
> For the unfamiliar or uninitiated, a couple of notes about the Pacific Rim universe:  
> Jaegers are the giant robots and Kaiju are the giant monsters.  
> About Jaegers and drifting, borrowed from the Pacific Rim opening monologue directly:  
>  _“By the time tanks, jets and missiles took [the first Kaiju] down, six days and thirty five miles later, three cities were destroyed. Tens of thousands of lives were lost... The world came together, pooling its resources, throwing aside old rivalry for the sake of the greater good. To fight monsters we created monsters of our own. The Jaeger program was born... There were setbacks at first, the neural load interface proved too much for a single pilot. A two pilot system was implemented, left hemisphere, right hemisphere, pilot controlled... The drift, Jaeger tech, based on DARPA jet fighter neural systems. Two pilots, mind melding through memories with a body of a giant machine. The deeper the bond, the better you fight.”_
> 
>   
> Many thanks to C for encouraging this to come into being, then listening to me ramble about the plot, the teams, my feelings, Jaime and Brienne's feelings, other character's feelings, my feelings again, before finally giving it a lookover for general sense-making. <3
> 
> All mistakes are mine with apologies.
> 
> I also wanted to thank the JB fandom generally. I have been largely lurking here since May, hoovering up all your excellent fannish contributions, and admiring so much all your creativity, dedication, and generosity. You are all truly inspirational. Thank you <3
> 
> Fic & chapter titles from Make Them Gold by CHVRCHES.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Now with graphic page by the talented [ro_nordmann](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ro_Nordmann/)!! Thank you so much, Ro!

  
by [Ro_Nordmann](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ro_Nordmann/)

  
They enter the drift. It’s their fifth drop in two years and Brienne is hit with the familiar flurry: loving images of Loras; others of Renly’s two brothers. Stannis, a faint wisp of fondness; Robert, utter apathy. Renly lying on his belly in front of a fire with his mother as a boy. His uni days. The first time he’d seen a Kaiju.

Beside her, she knows Renly sees the familiar from her: Galladon holding her hands tight swinging her round and round as she laughs. Cruel boys, followed by cruel men. Renly, telling her those men are shits. Marshal Tyrell calling her marvellous. Her father's kind, sad eyes through the years. Swimming in Tarth’s warm waters. The first time she’d landed a punch correctly.

Oathkeeper is in the mix, too. Brienne leans into its familiar comforting buzz in her mind: as she always does, she greets it, telling it that it’s _beautiful_. Possible or not, she swears Oathkeeper purrs in response, and she smiles.

She looks over at Renly, and he cracks a smile at her. “Ready Tarth?” he says. His smile wavers when he senses her wash of affection, but this discomfort is familiar between them, too. Unrequited feelings she can’t shake; the resounding knowledge between them that Renly likes her, sure, but thinks not much of her beyond it.

Brienne tells herself she doesn’t need more than that. They’re drift compatible. That’s the only thing that matters.

The chopper lifts Oathkeeper and carries them to Eastwatch —

The Wall is breached.

 _Fuck_. “It brought down the Wall,” Brienne breathes.

Enormous pieces of ice are strewn throughout the north side of the city, crushing cars and turning small buildings to rubble. What was once an old castle stronghold had become a thriving minor metropolis in the last hundred years. Hundreds of thousands of lives are at risk, and Brienne steels herself even as she relishes the thrill of impending battle coursing through her.

The Kaiju is tearing apart a tall building when it clocks their arrival. Codenamed Shadow. Biggest Category 3 to date. It turns slowly, almost like it’s _trying_ to be menacing, and, not for the first time, Brienne wonders at the intelligence of these creatures.

Renly lets out a startled, almost manic laugh. At Brienne’s querying thought, he says, “It looks a bit like Stannis.”

Brienne looks at Shadow’s face more closely. Nonplussed, she says, “It _does_.”

Ensuring its tentacles thrash through and damage as much as possible, Shadow moves to meet them.

“He was always my favourite brother. For whatever that’s worth,” Renly says wryly, almost sad. Then he mentally shrugs at her. “Let’s get this fucker.”

They walk.

* * *

Brienne stumbles out of the broken pane of Oathkeeper’s visor, gripping hard the wound at her side. She falls to her knees, then her back, knows only Renly’s terror, feels only Oathkeeper falling apart around her but —

“It’s dead,” she whispers, desperately, over and over. “It’s dead. It’s dead.” She killed it. The city is safe. She. She killed Shadow. Alone. “It’s dead.” Somehow. Alone. She’s alone in her head. Alone now. “He’s dead. He’s dead.”

There’s a blur of auburn, a voice gasps, “By the Seven.” And then, more forceful, “You’ll be all right. Robb — go. Get help. Run!”

“He’s dead,” Brienne tells the voice. Fingers stroke her forehead and Brienne flinches, thinks of Renly, and her memories blend. She's sitting with Renly, watching Oathkeeper that first time. Oathkeeper's visor smashes, Shadow tears Renly from the cockpit. He’s huddling with her, smiling, after the drift and they drink tea together. Oathkeeper lights up before her. Oathkeeper buckles beneath her. Screaming and grinding blurring with tea and the gentle hum of the cockpit. Pain, there’s so much pain. She’s bleeding. Her heart is an open wound, spilling blood into a drain in her mind.

“He’s dead.” She can’t stop saying it, “He’s dead. He’s dead.”

She passes out.

* * *

  
[ _Four Years Later_ ]

It’s rare that helicopters find their way to the North. Rare enough that Brienne sets aside her tools, signals to her second who nods, and heads for Catelyn’s office.

The house she’s working on is nearly done. It’s modest, as are all the rest, but it serves its purpose. By the time she gets back, they should be in a position to test the pipes, the heating. Electrics tomorrow.

The Starks focus their resources on the folk displaced by the attacks rather than fighting back. The rest of the Unified Effort, Brienne knows, have largely ignored their initiatives as the indulgences of a ‘bleeding heart widow’: they ask very rarely for material support and equally rarely do they deliver the resources they’ve promised. Never mind that the majority of the survivors housed come from outside the North, and that Catelyn’s _bleeding heart indulgences_ result in the lifting of significant burden in their own cities.

After the death of her husband, Catelyn had carried on with his duties as best she could. But the Wall falling under the Kaiju attack had been transformative on her. Making displaced people’s lives a little easier, a little safer became priority.

Eventually, Brienne thinks, the others in the Unified Forces will come around. The Jaeger program is haemorrhaging support from participants as they turn from it in lieu of focussing on other defence programs. In Brienne’s view, usually much weaker defence programs than the Jaegers; no other defence or protection has been half as successful, even if Jaeger successes have been waning of late. She doesn’t say any of this to Catelyn, some unspoken agreement between them to leave it aside as a topic of discussion. At the weekly dinner where Brienne joins Cat and the remaining Stark kids, they both keep their silence whenever one of the children brings Jaegers up. The youngest daughter, Arya, had left for the King’s Landing Shatterdome three years ago, in the dead of night after a row with Catelyn; a row Brienne knows Catelyn revisits often. They watch the news together whenever it successfully broadcasts to their middle-of-nowhere camp, and at the inevitable Jaeger program report, Catelyn’s face gives her away. Worry lines bracket Catelyn’s mouth, some dogged air about her which she hides from her remaining children, and Brienne wishes she knew some way to allay Cat’s fears.

But Brienne knows first hand what it is like to succeed in a Jaeger: the intoxication, that sense of absolute victory.They protected so many people from so much harm. She used to think of the storms she loves from home, the harshest, most dangerous ones, the ones which turned the sea into an unknowable heaving tumult to blend with the rupturing sky. She had liked to imagine Oathkeeper in its midst: unmovable, indestructible. She had believed that if it were possible to fight a hurricane, _the Jaeger would win_.

That win would belong to her, too. And nothing, _nothing_ could stop her in those moments.

Until, that is, something had. She now also knows the precise and tormenting agony of failure. Most nights she dreams of Renly’s voice in her head, his thoughts just as… Just _before_. Then she wakes to the echoes of his screaming, the metallic shrieks as Oathkeeper falls. Cold sweats, her heart pounding so hard she feels sick from it, can’t breathe, the _exhaustion_ … The guilt.

She remembers shying away from Arya in those first months. She had had so many questions about Jaegers, about Kaiju: her fire had been so vibrant and so hot. Brienne had known only cold and shadows of grey as her body healed, as she sought some anchor for herself inside the gnawing throb in her chest, the echoing hollow of her mind, where she was only ever alone.

Is still, relentlessly, alone.

She understands Catelyn's fears, but she doesn’t, _can’t_ , fault Arya for going. So, she forces herself to focus elsewhere and works herself as hard as possible. Sometimes when she’s lucky the exhaustion of the day carries her through to the morning with dreamless sleep. And it also helps that she has learned the relieved expressions of survivors when they move into their new homes. The way their hope flares anew, and the resilience it takes to recreate a life with only gratitude and one another. Even if she sometimes (often) longs for a Jaeger's cockpit and the kind of power, defence, that offers, this is important work too. It's work she can utilize her big and muscly body for, and it’s like protecting people. Giving their hearts somewhere to heal, like Catelyn had offered her. Brienne had even seen it work for many of these people.

This particular camp isn’t large. They’re moving increasingly into desolate areas, where ensuring absolute access to amenities is vital and slows things down. Catelyn’s office is at the west side of the compound, a shoebox of a portable to keep heating and lighting efforts to a minimum. Electricity is preserved for the common areas: the mess, housing portables, anywhere the workers retreat when the daylight goes or it gets too cold to work. The Starks look after their workers. And Brienne tries to look after the Starks. She supports Catelyn however she needs, whenever she needs.

Rounding the last row of houses, nearly completed now, Brienne spots the King’s Landing Shatterdome icon on the chopper’s side. She picks up her pace, her heart pounding.

_What could the Marshal possibly want?_

Brienne stomps snow off her boots and knocks once, opening the door as soon as Catelyn calls for her to enter. Marshal Olenna Tyrell turns in her seat across from Catelyn and smiles as she always does when seeing Brienne.

“Ah, Tarth,” Olenna says, almost wistful. “Still as marvellous as ever.”

Brienne shifts uncomfortably, gives an awkward nod of greeting to the Marshal, then looks to Catelyn. The grey at Catelyn’s temples gives her grave, apologetic expression more gravity and Brienne’s stomach twists. Brienne says evenly, “Catelyn. Can I do anything here?”

Catelyn’s grim smile lands right in Brienne’s chest. “Please join us, Brienne,” she says and gestures to the chair beside Olenna. “Marshal Tyrell was just explaining to me the situation at the Shatterdome in King’s Landing. It seems they’ve run into some difficulty.”

The Marshal smiles slightly. “As ever, your diplomacy is appreciated, Catelyn,” Olenna says as Brienne settles beside her. Brienne’s shoulders tense when the Marshal turns away from Catelyn to face her entirely. “We have a plan, Tarth. And we need support.”

Brienne hesitates, watches her. “I’m sure there are some of our workers who might be willing to volunteer,” she says, but Olenna shakes her head and frowns at Brienne.

“You’ve never been good at coy, girl,” she says. Brienne flushes and frowns at Olenna. Olenna only holds her gaze. “I need you back, Brienne.”

“My work is here, Marshal,” Brienne says. She sets her jaw. “I’ve promised Catelyn I’ll stay until the work is done.” _And the work will never be done_.

Catelyn clears her throat. Brienne turns to her. Catelyn’s mouth quirks — an apology — and she clasps her hands in front of her, resting them on her desk. A renewed burst of nerves makes Brienne hunch in her seat. She forces herself to straighten as Catelyn speaks. “Brienne. I’m sure you’re aware of my… feelings about the Jaeger program. However, Marshal Tyrell tells me that they’ll be shutting down after this operation. So Arya…” Her eyes go a little distant, her lips crease in the way Brienne recognizes as Catelyn sorting through some emotion. Catelyn clears her throat. “Arya will be able to come home.”

“Catelyn,” Brienne says softly.

Catelyn blinks, meets Brienne’s gaze again. “She can come home once this operation is complete. And Marshal Tyrell has explained they need your help.”

Brienne knows what that means. They want her to pilot. It’s impossible though — her co-pilot is long lost. She knows the rumours which spread about her, some had made their way all the way to the Stark compound. Only a reckless idiot would agree to pilot with her. Or, she supposes, someone who understands the reality of rumours and reputations.

They’d be lucky to find the reckless idiot.

“It isn’t a complex mission,” Olenna cuts into Brienne’s thoughts. Brienne turns reluctantly towards Olenna and tries to sit tall in her seat. She can’t help but watch Olenna warily, whose eyes stay sharp on Brienne’s face. “But we must have our most skilled Rangers on it. We’ve one Jaeger without a crew. I want you in it.”

It isn’t a surprise and yet still Brienne swallows against the sudden lump in her throat. “I don’t have a co-pilot. I don’t… I can’t…”

“There’s no guarantees, of course,” the Marshal says. She has the look which Brienne had learned to be wary of, all those years ago. “I would like you to trial with someone. You're compatible, and his sim scores just surpass yours: 51 drops, 51 kills. No one’s matched him in the trials, and I do not do things like Tarly used to.”

Brienne had bested Renly easily in the trial. 4-1. But it had still been relatively early days in the program, and everyone had thought their compatibility scores would carry them through. Turned out Renly _didn’t have the temperament_ , and _his reliance on Ranger Tarth’s superior skills had obscured the fact he should not have been a pilot_ , so said the report of his death. Brienne thinks seeing a monster with your brother’s face would be enough to distract anyone, fuck anyone up. That she couldn’t protect him only proved her failure, not his.

“And, if you don’t match with him,” Olenna continues, perhaps speaking a touch more gently than she had before, “I am confident we’ll find someone for you in his stead.”

Brienne feels like her nerves are exposed; these two women who know different sides of her watching her so closely. Wanting things from her she doesn’t know she can give. Brienne forces herself to say, “With respect, Marshal, this is a great deal of effort to test your intuition.”

“I’m old, Brienne. My intuition tends to prove true these days,” Olenna says, smiling serenely. “Having you back would be worth it regardless of the outcome of the trial. But I anticipate the bond will be deep.”

Brienne knows in theory a deep bond is different, that the fighting is better. But she also knows the most she can hope for is what she already had with Renly. A mutual respect. Of sorts. On the darkest, coldest (loneliest) nights when she buckles, lets herself imagine in exacting detail what it would be to return to a Jaeger, she perhaps also allows herself to long for a pilot with whom she shares something deeper, something more... reciprocal. Whether friendship or otherwise. But she does not believe it’s actually _possible_. She knows what she is. That kind of relationship… It just isn’t something she will ever get. She isn’t made for it.

“I won’t insist, Brienne,” Catelyn says. Looking back at her, Brienne thinks Catelyn has doubts as she glances at Olenna. But Brienne sees, too, the concealed yearning in her expression. Her worry for Arya has kept her other children close. The youngest, Bran and Rick, don’t seem to mind. But Sansa has been appearing in Brienne’s quarters after hours for months, flopping on her too-hard couch, pining to return to a very detailed and romantic imagined university experience Brienne isn’t sure exists any longer, if ever it did. It certainly hadn’t for Brienne. Not that she has the heart to say so. Even the ever dutiful eldest Robb is starting to get prickly at their morning meetings, more testy when they spar.

Brienne glances at Olenna again, sees the ferocity in her eyes. Brienne takes another breath, stops fighting her hands and lets them clench into fists. She isn't one to shy from her own truths.

The life she built here isn’t for her. She doesn’t fit, not really. She has stayed longer than she ought to have, letting her fear keep her tethered, letting her sense of duty and obligation lie to her, give her the excuses she needed. Catelyn is so important to her; her children, as well. Though she might like to imagine it, this, too, is something Brienne does not get: the peaceable family life.

Olenna’s eyebrow raises slightly, and Brienne looks away. She had never felt more alive than when she piloted Oathkeeper. That, at least, she might claim again for herself. She misses feeling lit from within, if only in those moments. And, she thinks with a pang in her chest, she can contain the feeling for just herself and her Jaeger, safely; it is best she keeps her next co-pilot at arm's length, insofar as she is able. After all, Renly rarely commented on her, but he had once said he admired her resolve. Brienne had thought on that compliment so many times over the years, she had long decided it was a kindness with truth to it. A truth she could cleave to.

It might be she’s ready to… to try again. Or if not ready, exactly, then willing to accept Olenna’s offer. And if at the same time she might repay Catelyn some of her kindness, enable Arya to return home, then…

Catelyn breaks through her thoughts and says reassuringly, “You’ll always have a place here, Brienne.”

With a final look at Catelyn's face, knowing the calm neutrality she wears as a mask, recognising the anxiety in the corners of her eyes, the slight downward turn to her mouth giving away her strain. Brienne tries to smile, tries to convey that Catelyn has nothing to worry about, but Catelyn's lips thin in response. Brienne sighs softly, and before Catelyn might speak more assurances, Brienne turns to Olenna. “When do we leave?”

Olenna’s smile is slow and satisfied. “As soon as you’re packed.”

* * *

Jaime steps out of the shower to pounding on his door. Wrapping a towel around himself, he peers through the peephole and rolls his eyes. The kid is relentless; they’ve already sparred once. She does hate it when they draw even though.

“I’m not sparring you again today!” he shouts, watches as Arya rolls her eyes.

“I’m not here to spar you, you mangy lion!” she shouts back. He winces and hastily opens the door. Arya raises an eyebrow at his towel. Jaime glares. “I’d be dressed if you hadn’t been trying to beat my door in. And keep your voice down. The night shift workers still have another 30 till they’re roused.”

“I was knocking like a normal person,” she retorts. “And you shouted first. The Marshal wants to see you. New meat.”

He sighs. “Isn’t it a bit late for that?”

Arya only shrugs. “You know the Marshal does exactly what she wants.” Jaime huffs at the admiration in her voice. She snaps, “Hurry up. I’m already late for dinner with Gendry.”

Raising an eyebrow, Jaime replies tartly, “I don’t need an _escort_.”

Arya flashes him an arch grin, says “Great!” and dashes down the steps and away towards the mechanics wing.

Jaime shuts the door, towels his hair dry. Occasionally he wonders what the late, great Eddard Stark would think of his… friendship with Arya. The man had despised him since everything with Aerys, though Jaime always thought it had gone beyond that. The Lannister name is enough for most people. Of course, his father would have hated it, too. He snorts. Ned and Tywin, allies in death, as they never were in life. _And all it took was my making a friend_.

Jaime pokes irritably through his wardrobe, such as it is these days. He’ll find out just what issues this new person has with him, his family, or both. As he has done, time and again, for years. _Wonderful_. He dresses quickly and with a deep breath, leaves his quarters.

The walk to the Marshal’s office is unusually quiet, though there seems to be some buzz in the mess. Jaime makes note to check it out after he leaves Thorny’s office.

He raps on her door and enters before she can say anything.

“Lannister,” Thorny greets. She gives him a narrow look, and he smirks.

“Arya said this was urgent. _New meat._ ” He glances around her office, looks back to her. “Not a flank in sight. I’m certain I put that request through the proper channels.”

“There’s your error. The proper channels dried up around the same time our official budget did,” Thorny says, then stands and moves to lean against the front of her desk. When Thorny crosses her arms over her chest, Jaime drops the flippancy.

“What is it?” he asks. Instinctively he plants his feet, clasps his hands behind his back.

Thorny peers up at him, and Jaime raises an eyebrow in return. She shakes her head slightly, and says evenly, “I want you to trial with someone. I’ve a good feeling about it, but —”

“As we’ve found, there are no men like me,” he says. Not that he likes that, in these circumstances. But he gives Thorny the smile he knows will make her roll her eyes. “Only me.”

Instead, her smile turns: a cat who got the cream. “Indeed,” she says, suspiciously agreeable. “But there might be a woman.”

They’d tried that, too. Multiple times, obviously. Once Tarly and his antiquated bullshit was forced out after some incident with the only woman Ranger at the time, Thorny had been aggressive in seeking out any pilots for the program. Gender identity — hell, _any_ identity marker — was irrelevant to Marshal Tyrell, so long as they could pilot or fill another need in the program. Anyone was welcome from anywhere. It was part of what won Jaime’s loyalty: Thorny’s absolute acceptance. Jaime had tested with anyone whose results were comparable. They were all impressive, Jaime surprised himself by even _liking_ some of them; would train them when they matched with other people. But none tested well with Jaime.

The most humiliating test was when, half in arrogance and half in desperation, Jaime had brought in Cersei: his worst compatibility score to date. Tyrion had laughed until he fell off his chair.

Jaime turns at Thorny’s gesture. He hadn’t heard her enter; the woman in question is a little taller than him, broader. Has a face like she’d run into a brick wall as a child and no one had bothered to fix her up: crooked nose from (he guessed) multiple breaks, a forehead made for scowling. Whichever of the gods made her was liberal and haphazard with freckles. There’s scarring on her cheek, made more severe by her pale blonde hair pulled back from her face. Her clothes are ill-fitting, and a baffling mix of wrinkled and _starched_. Only her boots appear sensible and comfortable.

But the look she shoots Tyrell tells him she’s about as pleased to be compared to him as he is to be compared to _anyone_. And that he understands.

There’s something else about her, though. Maybe it is only that shared sense behind her expression, but Jaime finds he's curious about her. He can’t remember feeling this so quickly before, and it puts him on edge. All at once he hates it.

However. He’s dealt with the likes of Hyle fucking Hunt for the last five years. He’s not going to be thrown by his inexplicable response to this dour giant. He extends a hand, slants a charming smile. “Jaime Lannister.”

The woman’s head drops to look at his hand but she doesn’t take it. She says, “Brienne Tarth,” as she raises her head, looking him over. Then her eyes go past his, to Thorny. “Is this the Lannister who shot a Councillor for a promotion?” she asks, ignoring him.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jaime says, voice even. He forces himself to turn slowly back towards Tyrell, seething. It isn’t like Tarth is the first to level the charge at him; Hells, he had even _anticipated_ it. But it _grates at him_ ; stings, in a way it shouldn’t. Not anymore. Knowing it’s irrational, feeling he should be _better than this_ , he says to Olenna, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Olenna shrugs. Flicks an impassive look between him and Tarth. “Worth testing, don’t you think? Tarth, you were one of our best. Lannister has the scores, too. And, you’re compatible.”

“Is this the Tarth who got her co-pilot killed?” he mimics Brienne, snide. He knows this isn’t strictly fair; years ago he had read the report of her last fight, remembers enough. He looks over his shoulder at her when she sucks in a sharp breath.

“That wasn’t — It wasn’t like that,” she says. Her face is a splotchy red, and she meets his gaze directly for the first time. Her eyes — _such pretty eyes_ , he thinks, annoyed — are a little wet beneath her admittedly fearsome scowl. He almost feels a twist of guilt. She shoves past him, and says to Tyrell, “This isn’t going to work. Find someone else.”

“So, you’re a coward, too,” Jaime finds himself saying. Why he didn’t just keep his godsdamned mouth shut — he didn’t want her, she was going to give him the out. Yet, drawing on some half-remembered knowledge from who-knows-where, he keeps going, “That what the Starks teach you, hiding in the North?”

She freezes, then turns to him slowly, a face like thunder. “Strong words for a man who’s never stepped foot in a Jaeger,” she says, quietly. Dangerously. Jaime squares off against her, locking eyes with her. She asks, “What makes you think you’ve the mettle?”

“My previous record speaks for itself,” he growls.

Tarth’s lips thin, then one side ticks down. “Yes,” she says quietly. “It does.”

“Enough,” Thorny says coldly. Jaime forces himself to take a deep breath. He turns slowly towards Olenna. She looks between them icily and shakes her head. Jaime clocks as Tarth actually _shrinks_ beside him. He wouldn’t have imagined it possible. Tyrell says, “Have you lost sight of the situation? I need both of you here, now. Your results indicate compatibility. If you trial and you aren’t, there’s other work to do. If you are, you’ll get over this petty bullshit and protect us all.”

Her glare is rather impressive; he can’t remember ever being on the receiving end of it, and though it doesn’t make him feel _bad_ , exactly, he will accept her point. Grudgingly. And, he _is_ desperate to get into a Jaeger. Frustrated with training people, of prepping the other pilots when they’re sent off; tired of waiting anxious and powerless while they’re out, helping them debrief when they’re back. He doesn’t want to wait around for his death to find him, helpless in some godsforsaken bunker.

Olenna adds, “I’m not looking for you to be _bosom buddies_. I need competent Rangers. Understood?”

Well. If Tarth can somehow get him into a Jaeger… Jaime draws a deep breath. Thorny is right. He’ll get over it.

Tyrell snaps, “Or have you mistaken me for some snivelling idiot pleading at the alters of Tarth and Lannister?”

“No, Marshal,” Tarth says quickly. Jaime can almost feel the shame radiating off of her in waves. He smothers an empathetic impulse and strives for exasperation instead. He fails.

Thorny evidently thinks he’s still taking too long to respond though, because she barks, “Lannister?”

Jaime bites his tongue against the sarcastic response he wants to make, and nods instead. “Understood, Marshal.”

“Good. Now get to the mat. Let’s see if you’re co-pilot material.”

* * *

They’re given 15 minutes to get their gear, and somehow in that span, word has spread. By the time Jaime reaches the training room, it seems like most of the base is in attendance. Thorny is stood on the far side, the slightly raised platform, and Jaime makes his way over to her.

“Lannister,” she greets him. She has a definite smug air about her, which Jaime actually finds himself enjoying. Still, on principle, he matches her smug look with one of his own. She says, “Are you ready to have your arse handed to you?”

He laughs, derisive. “As much as I’d hate to deprive you, Thorny, I’m not going to _lose_ to _Tarth_.”

Thorny only hums. Before he can say anything more, the mood of the crowd changes: they become alert, silent. Jaime sees Loras’ head snap up, his eyes narrow, and Jaime makes a note to have a word with him if Tarth sticks around. Not for _Tarth’s_ sake, mind. For general Shatterdome harmony, such as it is. Margaery rests a quelling hand on his arm, but Loras shakes her off. Beside Jaime, Olenna clears her throat pointedly. Somehow Loras hears it, looking over at her. From the corner of his eyes, Jaime sees Thorny give a slight shake of her head, and though Loras’ scowl doesn’t shift, he does ease back against the jamb he’d been leaning on. Margaery shoots her grandmother a look Jaime can’t read.

“He going to be a problem?” Jaime asks quietly.

Thorny snorts. “Absolutely not.”

Jaime thinks this is not at all enough of an answer, but Tarth steps through the crowd. Unexpectedly, he finds himself staring. She’s changed: she’s in a pair of dark, loose trousers, cuffs at her ankles. They’re shapeless, like his, but somehow he’s aware of how very long her legs are. The light tank top is worse. It’s maybe a size too small for her, a thin strip of skin is visible along her toned abdomen between the top of the trousers and the bottom of the tank, and he thinks he can see freckles even there. His eyes track over her torso, then the lines of the muscles of her biceps, the breadth of her shoulders, the cords of her neck… He wets his lip; realizes, bites his tongue in annoyance. He looks again at her left side, where scars trace almost like electrical circuits from her wrist to her shoulder, lancing up her neck into the starburst of scar tissue on her cheek. He focuses on her expression and she’s looking at him strangely, her eyes vibrant even across the room.

He starts to say, “I —”

But Thorny interrupts, “Four strikes marks a win.” Her voice carries, silences the crowd. Jaime gives himself a mental shake. He takes himself down the step to the edge of the mat, removes his boots and is very aware of Tarth doing the same across from him.

Her feet are elegant.

Disconcerted by the thought, Jaime finds himself blurting, “Remember, this is a dialogue not a fight,” as though she were a rookie. He leans into this brand of shitty, though, smirks at her as he steps onto the mat. “But I won’t be dialling down my moves.”

She gives him such a singularly withering look that he can’t help his smirk widening to a smile. “Neither will I,” she says.

_Ah, at least this will be fun._

Traditionally, each candidate greets one another with a demonstration of their style. Jaime begins. He knows he’s the best, his style is masterful; he has intimidated before and he will intimidate again. He swings the staff in a wide arc, flourishes it in loops across his front, his footwork precise. He pulls the staff back to rest the hilt by his hip, the point raised, feet set for battle.

Tarth nods. Her demonstration is significantly less artistic, more utilitarian. But it’s fluid. Her control is perfect. He honestly can’t think of anyone he’s seen who compares at this. She finishes with her body perpendicular to his, feet planted wide as she halfway crouches, her staff held behind her, pointed to the ground.

He slides his foot forward, Tarth waits. Her first mistake. He swings and stops the staff a breath from her forehead.

Cocking his head, he smirks. “One, zero.”

With a shout, she knocks his staff aside and a whoosh of air hits his face, her staff almost touching his nose. “One, one,” she says evenly.

Maybe he should be annoyed but his blood rises pleasingly and he huffs out a chuckle. As soon as she moves back, he steps forward, swipes his staff softly across her upper thigh and purrs, “Two, one. Focus, Tarth.”

Her eyes flash, and he brings his staff up just in time to parry hers. They exchange a flurry, back and forth, and he’s enjoying how _good_ she is, and then she hooks her foot around his forward ankle and pulls back, unbalancing him and her staff is by his ear. She strokes his neck featherlight as she withdraws, and says, “Two, two.”

He grins and she scowls, and he takes a couple of steps back to reset. She lets him, but this time she’s ready. He attacks first with wide swings, then faster jabs, and Brienne matches them all. Suddenly, her shoulder is in his chest, her hand under his leg and she’s lifting him, flipping him. Jaime manages to save it, rolls, but by the time he’s on his knees, her staff is at his forehead. She’s breathing heavily, eyes shining, as she says, “ _Three_ , two,” and his voice is rough as he replies, “So it is.”

Brienne lets him up. She circles him and when her feet cross, Jaime launches himself at her. With her flip, the rules are changed. He goes more brawl, less art, can see as Brienne clocks the change, the single moment she’s in her head too much and not in the fight. He drops, hooks his staff behind her knees so they buckle, and uses the momentum to roll them, sending her over his shoulder. His staff points at her heart when she looks up, and he says, “Look at that, Tarth.” He tilts his head. “Does that make it three, three?”

She growls, goes for him. He laughs as unanticipated pure joy flirts through his veins, and thinks he sees Brienne’s lips curve just a bit. It’s impossible to know for sure, their dance is fast. Each swing of his staff is blocked. Each jab of hers knocked away. She thrusts at him, but he’s quicker. He tries to outmatch her, but she’s stronger. There’s a rhythm to it: swing, parry, thrust, block, dance, turn, lunge, twist, push, pull, then all at once she knocks his feet out from under him and is straddling his thighs, her staff hovering at his throat.

“Four, three,” she says, panting over him. She flushes with triumph, and he almost regrets saying, “You sure?” and drawing her attention to his staff, the tip already pressed against her ribs. It may not be a _win_ , but satisfaction is bone deep, an insistent thrum in his veins. “Four, four.” He’s breathless when he says it, but still throws her a cocky smile. “We draw.”

He expects her face to crumple into a scowl but instead she huffs a rueful chuckle which lights her face. Her lips pull broad in a closed-mouth smile that tugs at the scar on her left cheek and teases crinkles around her right eye, those pretty eyes bright and sparkling down at him. Jaime finds it hard to breathe, his heart starts up a different harried beat like it wants his attention, the curiosity from earlier stronger than ever. He’s aware suddenly of his free hand braced on her waist, gripping her directly on her skin where her shirt rides up. She is hot, damp with sweat under his palm, her hard muscles defined under his fingers as she breathes, and her weight is somehow welcome, _wanted_ , on top of him. She must see something in his face because her teeth press into the plush flesh of her bottom lip and her eyes flash just like when they were mid-spar. Inexplicably, heat pools in his stomach —

He startles when Thorny says, “I’ve seen enough.”

Brienne gets off him, extends a hand to help him to his feet. He becomes aware of the murmuring of the onlookers, hears Arya say, “She’s an assassin,” Margaery reply, “ _Seriously_.” He agrees.

He shakes his limbs loose, is grateful for the shapelessness of his trousers, and can’t help but look at her in confusion. Brienne isn’t looking at him. She’s staring at the floor with a furrow in her brow.

Relief pours through him when Thorny says, “We have our new team,” and they’re dismissed.


	2. we are made of our longest days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne learns more about Jaime from other members of the Shatterdome. Their first drift reveals more than either of them anticipate.
> 
>   
> _“Initialization complete,” Podrick reports. “Begin calibration, please.”_
> 
> _Calibration, syncing up their minds with Oathkeeper’s body. Brienne likes the ritual of it, a soothing counterpoint to the initial mess of the drift. She looks at her left hand, feels Lannister do the same. Lannister looks at his right hand, Brienne does the same. They set their hands to meet, and now Oathkeeper joins them._
> 
> _Beside her, Lannister murmurs, “This is…”_
> 
> _And Brienne knows the end of the sentence. It’s her sentence, too. She breathes, “Incredible.”_
> 
> _Lannister laughs. He’s so_ warm _through the connection. It’s a contrast..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a couple of quick things!
> 
> A note on ages (where relevant):  
> Brienne and Jaime are closer in age than their book or show counterparts: Brienne (30), Jaime (34).  
> Arya is the youngest pilot ever at 18. She's been at the Shatterdome since 15, but wasn't allowed to pilot until she turned 18.
> 
> In this fic, Lyanna Stark is nonbinary, pronouns they/their and she/her.
> 
> Content warnings for flashbacks to traumatizing incidences for characters, and references to past abuse.
> 
> Many thanks again to C for encouragement and looking this over for general sense-making! Remaining mistakes are mine with apologies.
> 
> As before, chapter title from Make Them Gold by CHVRCHES.

The mess is twice as large as Brienne remembers, with enough tables to feed at least a hundred people. When Arya had pounded on her door that morning, Brienne expected her to ask for news from the North. Instead, she’d asked Brienne to join her for breakfast, along with Lyanna Stark and someone called Gendry Waters.

Her first test in Oathkeeper with Lannister is scheduled for mid-morning. Her chest is tight with longing at the thought of stepping into the cockpit again. She had mourned Oathkeeper as she had Renly, and it had remained a part of her: a soft ache in her heart, an absence in her mind. To see it, connect with it again, to feel that purr… Brienne had never dared hope, even when she heard they were trying to rebuild it. And now, it’s hers once more.

But. There’s also Lannister.

Brienne hadn’t slept well. She’s eager for Oathkeeper. Nervy of sharing Oathkeeper with someone new, and of the first drift with Lannister. What could his mind possibly be like? What might the drift reveal to him of hers?

_Gods._

Arya had offered a distraction and Brienne had gratefully accepted, following her out the door.

On the short trip to the mess, Brienne does catch up Arya on news of her family. But it’s a stilted conversation: Brienne gets the impression that Arya wants to know, misses her family, but also feels some lingering… _something_ after her argument with Catelyn. Arya takes the first opportunity to end the topic of discussion when she interrupts herself to holler after Gendry at the other end of the hall. Brienne hasn’t met him before, but there’s something familiar about the man who turns promptly at Arya’s shout and smirks at her. Brienne hurries her steps to match Arya’s quickened pace.

Arya soon locates Lyanna who is quick to offer Brienne their hand, a firm and friendly shake. Their smile is so reminiscent of Robb’s that Brienne is startled by a wash of something like homesickness, followed quickly by a squirming embarrassment at her weakness. It’s been barely a day. Has she really gone so soft in the North?

Lyanna’s hand lands bracing on Brienne’s shoulder, as though they might guess at Brienne’s feelings. Before Brienne can say anything though, Arya is glaring after someone joining the queue for food, mutters about them always getting the last hashbrowns, and drags Gendry away. With a shrug, Brienne falls into step with Lyanna.

They move quickly through the offerings, though Arya and Gendry are in and out before Brienne has so much as found a tray. Lyanna steers her clear of the sausage (“The Westerlands might be renown for their gold, but their sausage is shite,”) encouraging her to try the horse (“One of our cooks is Dothraki. You’ll be hard pressed to find better outside Essos,”) and piling Dornish rice on her plate without so much as a by-your-leave (“You’ll thank me.”) Her tray loaded, Brienne glances around. It’s between shifts, Lyanna had told her, and so is quieter than one might expect for the time of day. Together they head for a table where Arya is already seated next to Gendry. Their heads together as they whisper furiously at one another, a wicked smile on Arya’s face.

Lyanna glances at Brienne and grins. “They got together almost six months ago. Believe me, it was a relief to everyone when they finally did. The tension was _maddening_.” Lyanna winks, then gestures Brienne to a seat before dropping next to her.

“Got any questions, Tarth?” Lyanna asks once they’re settled. Arya looks at her expectantly, Gendry more impassive.

Glancing between them, Brienne shifts. She does, a tangle of questions about Lannister. She knows his story; the same one the whole of Westeros and much of Essos knows. Twisted by his ambition: the Lannister lot. He had acted such a jerk when they’d first met, confirming it. Then the way he had looked at her as he introduced himself, like so many men before with their charming smiles hiding poison tongues and sharp teeth.

But Brienne cannot match the man she met in Olenna’s office with the man who had stared up at her so… so… _earnestly_ at the end of their trial. Sparring with him had drawn her in entirely, and hours later she still feels a buzz from it: some tickle chasing across her nerves that contradictorily grounds her in her body in a way she only feels in the midst of combat. The way he had looked at her, like he felt no indignity that it was _Brienne_ who pinned him, no revulsion to her straddling him, defeating him. She had expected a sneer and instead he nudged her ribs with his staff, and had grinned, his expression a reflection of her own feelings, inexplicably and deeply satisfied by their draw. A thrumming rightness.

And then that shift just before Olenna had called an official end to the trial… Brienne doesn’t know what words to put to his expression, but she does _still_ feel somehow awkward and _seen_.

The feeling amplifies as they watch her and wait, and Brienne blurts, “Tell me about Lannister?”

“Too clever by half,” Lyanna says immediately, pointing their chopsticks at her. “Smug. Entitled. Dodgy. Can’t be trusted.”

“Jaime’s all right,” Arya interrupts. “I mean, he’s a complete knobhead, but a good one, you know? He trained me. We still spar at least once a week.” Then, to Lyanna, she rolls her eyes and says, “And you’re only saying that because Dad didn’t like him. I miss Dad, obviously, but let’s be honest, Aunt. Besides Mum, he did not have the best taste in people.” Lyanna opens their mouth to reply but Arya barrels over them. “When Dad died, he was still best mates with _Robert Baratheon_. The biggest fucking wanker in Westeros.”

Beside Arya, Gendry shifts. Brienne remembers hearing about Robert’s illegitimate children. Outside those rumours and Renly’s memories, Brienne’s own impressions of Robert are rather limited. After Renly’s death, she had sent letters to both his brothers. Stannis’ response may have been stilted, but it had come, and he had assured her he didn’t think she was at fault. It hadn’t stopped her blaming herself, but she’d appreciated the sentiment. Robert hadn’t responded.

She surreptitiously looks at Gendry again. He could certainly be a Baratheon: his eyes are like Renly’s, same complexion, too. Similar enough bone structure…

Lyanna says darkly, “Ned would’ve come round.”

“Only ‘cause you’d have hounded him,” Arya says, scoffing. “Dad was clearly one of those men who stays mates with arseholes just because they went to uni together.” Arya looks at Brienne. “For what it’s worth, Lannister is _not_ one of those men. Though, in fairness, I think I can count the number of friends he has on one hand… Including me and his brother, who works in the science division.”

“Such as it is,” Gendry mutters, and Lyanna snorts their agreement.

“Rhaegar doesn’t trust Lannister, either,” Lyanna says.

“Well, only because he killed Rhaegar’s father,” Arya says with a roll of her eyes. Then, as though she realizes what she’s just said, she sobers, adds, “That... is messed up.” She goes quiet then, and Brienne wonders if they’ve all now reached the crux of the issue with Lannister. Her first meeting with him aligns with Lyanna’s view. But the way he’d been in their spar, Arya’s.

A shiver chases down her spine. In the trial he had been so _alive_. It crackled from him, like an invitation for her to join him, and… she accepted, met him. _Easily_. He had called it a dialogue. Brienne’s heard trials referred to that way before, but this is the first time she truly understands. Truly, could someone so bad light up the way he had? It worries her, how much she wants to like Lannister.

It’s a discomfiting enough thought on its own, without having to contend with the rest of him. Irritation needles her.

Across from her, Lyanna looks grimly satisfied until Arya says, “But Crownlands vets have said he was right to do it. To... get rid of Aerys.”

Brienne can almost believe that, too. Back before there was a coordinated effort across Westeros and Essos, the Crownlands used to do things exactly as they wanted, and damn the rest. Targaryens especially got away with almost anything. People claimed it was because of some lingering sense that they were entitled to whatever they wanted as though they ran the place, even if that hadn’t been true for decades. In reality, the Crownlands had given the other Counties access to all kinds of resources, trade routes, and the main financial district for Westeros had been there, amongst other things. Brienne thinks it more likely the other Counties couldn’t be fucked to interfere unless it affected them directly or, really, impacted their bottom lines. The rumours of — what would now be considered — rights violations and seriously dodgy practise were infamous and horrifying.

“They _said_ that,” Lyanna says.

“Not explicitly,” Arya admits, glowering. “But they heavily implied it. It sounds like things were fucked in the Crownlands back then. And anyway — nevermind them. _Elia_ likes him.”

Lyanna sighs and crosses their arms over their chest. Reluctantly they say, “He did help Elia out.” Lyanna meets Brienne’s look. A quiet agony fills their eyes that takes Brienne aback. “A few years ago, Elia got really ill. We still don’t know why… She’s better now, she’s fine. But it was bad for a while.”

“I’m sorry,” Brienne says. She can’t imagine herself ever finding a single companion who might accept her love and love her in turn, let alone two people like Lyanna has with Elia and Rhaegar. She doesn’t want to imagine what it might be like, to lose one of those people. Particularly not after drifting with them. She’d been devastated enough after Renly, and her love for him had not been welcome. The thought alone forms knots across her shoulders, twists in her stomach.

“Thanks,” Lyanna says. The corner of their mouth curls up a little, but their eyes are still shadowed. “Lannister was in the infirmary one day and started talking to Elia. Then he began to visit her. If she had the energy, he would stay, make her laugh. When she was cleared for it, he trained with her through her physical therapy until the day she suited up again. She swears he’s the reason she’s back in the cockpit at all. Rhaegar and I think the reason is all Elia.” This last is delivered perhaps a little defensively, but with so much adoration that Brienne can only nod, her throat tight.

“ _See_ ,” Arya says. “He’s all right.”

Uncomfortably, Brienne starts to think that Lannister might not be worthy of his bad reputation. But she suspects this is an old argument between Arya and Lyanna. Brienne looks to Gendry. He recognizes the question she means to ask because he says, “I don’t like him.”

Arya turns on him, her smile all teeth. Brienne can actually almost see the crackle between them when their eyes meet. Arya says, “You don’t like _anybody_.”

“For some inexplicable reason, I like you,” he says with a shrug, and Arya elbows him in his ribs. Then they’re tussling, right there on the seat and Brienne looks at Lyanna helplessly. Lyanna shrugs. “You’ll get used to it,” they say, and take a sip from their drink.

Brienne decides to drop talk about Lannister and is about to ask what it’s like to have two co-pilots when Hunt enters the mess. She feels the blood drain from her face; finds it hard to swallow. As though he senses her gaze, Hunt looks over. He freezes, then takes a deep breath and his face eases into what Brienne suspects he thinks is a winning smile. It had worked, once. Before she had learned her lesson — poison tongues, sharp teeth.

She doesn’t realize she’s crushing her drink carton until the liquid spills down her hand. She throws it down quickly, frustrated at herself for the wasted coffee, awkwardly grabbing at the napkins to mop up the spill. Lyanna glances at her, turns around, lets out a low hiss. They turn back and Arya suddenly yelps across the table, bending awkwardly and rubbing her shin. “What was that —”

“Your co-pilot has arrived,” Lyanna says.

Arya glances over her shoulder. “Oh,” Arya says. When she turns back, she says feelingly, “Speaking of prats, Hunt is their wankstain king.”

Brienne’s head snaps up to look at Arya, but Arya is looking with determined disinterest somewhere over Brienne’s shoulder. Brienne flushes, hot and prickling, humiliation making her nauseous: Arya obviously knows. She had to have seen it in the drift, which is much, _much_ worse than just hearing about it. Hunt would be the last to say anything; he’d at least had the sense to seem remorseful about the whole thing, and while the Marshall didn’t know the full details, any halfwit could see she would not countenance those responsible if she did.

Arya must have seen it, then told Lyanna, judging by the look they’re pointedly not giving Brienne. Brienne keeps from hunching in her seat but there’s nothing to be done about the burn in her cheeks.

Gendry mutters, “I still don’t understand how you two matched.”

Arya only shrugs. “They don’t let people pilot alone, so to compensate for my excellence, I matched with someone shite?”

“That must be it,” Lyanna agrees, their eyes tracking Hunt across the mess. Brienne follows their gaze. He doesn’t seem inclined to come over and that, at least, is a relief.

Brienne forces a smile when Arya meets her eyes. There’s some fondness in Arya when she speaks of her co-pilot, even if the disgust is just as real. Brienne recognizes it. Renly was never disgusted by her, but it is somehow akin to the way he used to talk about her.

“Brienne,” Lyanna says, and Brienne looks at them. “Have I told you how a three-way compatibility test works?”

It’s transparent, but it’s kind. Brienne shakes her head, tries to force her attention to Lyanna because she truly is interested. Arya steals an unopened carton of coffee from Gendry’s tray and slides it across the table to Brienne. She tries to be more grateful than embarrassed when Gendry rolls his eyes but insists she take it.

* * *

Brienne arrives in the cockpit first, and sighs out some tension. She had hoped this reunion would be hers, and private. It’s not exactly the same: Oathkeeper has had some technological upgrades, by the looks of things. But it _feels_ the same. It even smells mostly the same, the only change a slight chemical tang in the air that hadn’t been there before, but will no doubt fade soon enough. The lighting is comfortingly familiar: gentle and warm. The soft hum of electrics eases her taut shoulders.

She walks towards the pilot position on the left, her old spot. She reaches up, touches the replaced stut which would connect her left arm to Oathkeeper’s. Traces it down to the snaps, the cradles. Remembers.

She moves away.

When Lannister steps onto deck Brienne uncomfortably thinks he looks good. She suspects he’s the type of person who looks good in anything, but the pilot gear _really_ suits him. The slick black lines accentuate his height, highlight his build. And she thinks it should be impossible, but his shaggy golden hair seems brighter, the green of his eyes more bold above the scruff painting his jaw. His face is vivid with anticipation she remembers, and he’d be breathtaking if she didn’t find him so disconcerting.

No, not just that. It’s that other part of it. Stronger now she sees him again, so she can’t at all dismiss it as incidental or misremembered. Something in her responds to something in him. Nevermind the drift itself: she is suddenly wary of what it might mean _after_ , when they’re outside Oathkeeper. Together and apart.

“Tarth,” he greets, a flash of teeth between his lips as he grins.

Brienne looks away, and gets into position on the right. “I’ll take this side.” She doesn’t explain that she used to be on the left, that her left arm still sometimes, though rarely, spasms like her nerves remember Oathkeeper’s arm being ripped away, the circuits in her suit shorting out across her flesh, convulsing the muscles in her entire arm. He’s likely to know soon enough, anyway.

She feels rather than sees Lannister’s shrug. They’re silent as they ready.

A voice comes through their ear pieces, “Initializing neural handshake.” The technician in charge of overseeing Ranger deployment, Podrick Payne. Brienne likes him; he sounds young, but calm, honest. He continues, “The computer will take over from here.”

Oathkeeper comes alive around them and Brienne steps into position. Hesitates, then says on impulse, “This isn’t a simulator.”

Lannister scoffs.

Brienne steels herself, presses on, “Just. Don’t chase the rabbit. Random Access Brain Impulse Triggers. Memories.” She’s nervous and she’s rambling at him as though he hasn’t trained pilots over the years, seen them through their first drifts. But training is different, monitoring is different. _Simulations are different_. There’s nothing like the drift. The first drift in particular, that initial frenetic exchange of memories, is always intense. But with her past, and with _Lannister…_ this _thing_ between them… It hadn’t been there with Renly. She doesn’t know what to expect.

She says more insistently, “Let them flow. And —”

“Don’t latch on,” Lannister interrupts. His voice is unexpectedly kind and Brienne looks at him. “Stay in the drift.” His eyes crinkle at the corners as he quirks a smile at her behind the visor of his helmet and Brienne breathes out some of her tension. Nearly smiles back.

“The drift is silence,” she offers softly instead, and Lannister nods.

The computerized voice tells them, “Neural interface ready. Initiating.”

Brienne sucks in a deep breath, clears her mind and —

 _“I bet you won’t do it!” Cersei always underestimates him. He flashes her a grin, takes a few big steps back, then starts sprinting for the cliff, the excitement and joy pulses through him so strongly that he yells as he runs, then there’s the edge and he_ leaps _—_

 _His baby brother is so_ small _. Tyrion’s fingers curl around his thumb. Affection floods him so fast and so hard it almost_ hurts _. Tears spill from his eyes and he swipes them quickly before someone sees_

_The sun is bright but the crypt rejects its light and his Mum is gone_

_Galladon’s casket lowers. She has no more tears, is only hollow_

_His Father’s voice. “You have disappointed me.” He’s sick to his stomach, his skin itches_

_Tyrion curls into his side, sniffling into a spare shirt, and his heart is breaking for his little brother_

_Cersei releases her painful grip on his arm. A small prick of blood where one of her nails was too sharp. “Idiot,” she says, scornful, turning away. She looks over her shoulder, brow raised, expects him to follow. He does_

_He starts to race, loves it, laughs with her when Cersei catches up to him_

_Graduation, Cersei hooks her arm through his. “Only a year. Then you’ll join me in Lannisport. My mirror, and guard.” A year seems like an awfully long time when they’ve never been apart, but Jaime grins at her like she wants him to_

_Tyrion’s arms tight around his neck, he presses a kiss to his little brother’s forehead before he leaves_

_Arthur Dayne’s hand on his shoulder. Jaime’s never seen someone look proudly at him before_

_Tarth’s waters are warm and she dives, pushing her hands into the sandy bottom_

_“Ours is not to question, Lannister. You’re not in the Westerlands anymore. You’ll_ follow direction _.”_

_Renly smiles at her and her heart flutters_

_“Come along, Lannister,” Marshall Olenna Tyrell says. “It’s time.” He’s so grateful, left alone, he cries_

_He lies in bed, stretches his legs and thinks on their spar._ Brienne Tarth _._ _He doesn’t_ _—_

Oathkeeper hums for her as the squall of thoughts and memories settles around them and Brienne greets it just like before, tells it she thinks it’s beautiful. Lannister flickers confusion, affection, curiosity, agreement. Brienne closes her eyes briefly. _This is so_ different.

“Initialization complete,” Pod reports. “Begin calibration, please.”

Calibration: syncing up their minds with Oathkeeper’s body. Brienne likes the ritual of it, a soothing counterpoint to the initial mess of the drift. She looks at her left hand, feels Lannister do the same. Lannister looks at his right hand, Brienne does the same. They set their hands to meet, and now Oathkeeper joins them.

Beside her, Lannister murmurs, “This is…”

And Brienne knows the end of the sentence. It’s her sentence, too. She breathes, “Incredible.”

Lannister laughs. He’s so _warm_ through the connection. It’s a contrast: his mind is sharp, quick, curious, and reminds Brienne of the rapids on the north west side of Tarth. Always moving so swiftly, the water almost seems to dance, flirt with itself along its surface. She can sense the rocks beneath the tumble, waiting to trip, scrape, bruise, snag, drown at the first misstep.

 _Guard defend_.

She isn’t sure if they’re her words or his, but they resonate deep in her gut. She understands. And still. She thinks there’s a way to navigate through. And… there’s that abiding warmth through it all, and almost a shyness. She has that sense again, like an invitation.

She finds it… him… _alluring_ …?

“Do you,” Lannister says, voice low and rumbling — a frisson through the connection, a liquid curl, coursing back and forth — but, there’s a taunt in it somewhere and Brienne recoils.

There’s a rock — she feels his piercing offence, responds with her own. The rapids turned treacherous. Connecting with Renly had been easy: his mind had been like air. There might be breezes or gales, but nothing was hidden. He was utterly transparent; no attempt or need to keep anything veiled or protected. Not even when she might have wished it.

They’re still moving through the patterns. Oathkeeper responds, seems to purr like it used to, and Brienne can sense it responding to Lannister, that easy cooperation like it does with her. Like it never really did with Renly. Rangers know the connection lingers; the scientists doubt it — Lannister’s stray thought breezes through her mind, _I won’t be telling Tyrion_ — but Rangers _know._ There’s so many reports of Jaegers twitching in the dead of night, the connection supposedly long broken. She wonders… her dreams had never stopped. Had Oathkeeper ever…?

 _No_.

The answer isn’t harsh; almost apologetic. Like he regrets… But Brienne still feels the sting. And all at once she’s awash in grief for Renly.

“Calibration complete,” comes the computerized voice.

Oathkeeper had been _theirs_. In the back of her mind, she hears that fight again, echoes of screams and the grinding shriek of metal collapsing. Brienne shakes her head, tries to focus on the now. But still, her mind strays to Renly. It was just that they’d been a _team_ , together, and they might not have been perfect but —

“You’ve come up in the world, Tarth,” Lannister says. She feels there’s some cringing defensiveness in it, but he’s buffeting her with such _arrogance_.

Brienne turns her head to glare at Lannister’s smug, stupid face, but instead all she sees is —

Herself, _terrified_.

The echoes surge and clamour and the icy winds of Eastwatch are blasting through the hole in Oathkeeper’s visor, freezing her through her suit. Only — she’s in Renly’s memories and Shadow’s hand thrusts through the hole, its claws wrap around her body — her brain scrambles: the jolt, struts wrenching, Shadow’s claw pierces her shoulder, _agony_ , she can’t move for the fear, knows — _I’m going to die, Brienne!_ — it tears her away, the connection snaps —

She slams back into her own body: it’s Renly’s petrified face she sees, how feeble, powerless he looks, plucked so easily, tossed so carelessly, his screams diminishing as he’s flung away —

 _You’re not in the North!_ she reminds herself, gasping for breath. _You’re in the KL Shatterdome!_

She still feels the ice winds. _It’s been_ years _!_ Around her, Oathkeeper seems to shudder. There’s a shooting pain in her arm and Brienne grits her teeth against it. _Oathkeeper is_ rebuilt _. It’s_ whole _again._

She forces herself to breathe. _Renly is long passed. Nothing can hurt him now._ She holds onto that thought, and slowly, slowly, feels Oathkeeper whole around her. The visor is intact. Both arms are in full working order. She’s safe. They’re both safe.

Then there’s Podrick’s urgent voice in her ear, “— out of alignment! Have to get back in —”

“I’m okay,” Brienne grits out. “I just — Let me control it.”

“You’re stabilizing, Tarth,” Podrick says. “Lannister isn’t! He’s way out! He’s starting to chase the rabbit!”

“Shit.” Brienne turns to him. “Lannister. Lannister!” She’s getting the edges of it now, bleeding through the lingering sensations of the frozen wet of the North. “Lannister — stay here. In the now. The memories aren’t real. Stay with me. _Lannister_!”

Now it’s _hot_ , and the change sets her heart pounding harder. The sun is high and blinding. She’s on some kind of tarmac: there are fighter jets set out, and an enormous collection of tents spread out behind them. Planes are returning, officers are running. _Children_ are being shooed back towards the tents by anxious looking adults in civilian clothes. Chaos is _everywhere_.

Looking around frantically, she finally spots Lannister, head down as he listens to something on his ear piece. He looks so _young_ , she thinks. She shakes herself: this isn’t real.

Then Brienne hears it. First as a memory, then like it’s in her own ear. “They’ll invade! Destroy the base!” a voice is saying, coming through tinny. Coming through deranged. “Destroy the base before they get here!”

“Belay that order!” Jaime barks, then he’s sprinting and Brienne is beside him.

“Lannister!” she shouts, but he’s lost. She can feel his mind racing: he’s been assigned detail to Targaryen for months, he _knows_ something isn’t right. He’s received accolades above his experience level, but everyone knows he’s only assigned Targaryen because the old fucker takes some perverse pleasure in bossing a Lannister around. As if the old rivalries matter one jot. And the others — his colleagues, his _superiors_ — they had seen, too. _They know_. When he asked, they just said he was to _follow_ —

“They’ll invade! Destroy the base!”

“Belay that!”

“Who’s ordering the belay?” someone shouts down the line, as the other voice, _Targaryen_ , just keeps saying, “Destroy the base! Destroy it all! Destroy the base!”

He forces himself to run faster, and Brienne does the same. Her muscles are burning, the air in her lungs is dry and baking, and she feels the weight of her suit and the tug from Oathkeeper as it struggles to respond to their commands. _Not good, not good._ Brienne tries calling after Lannister again, but he doesn’t hear her. He’s approaching the main buildings, tugging his handgun from its holster: _a precaution_ , Jaime tells himself. _Only a precaution_. He should never have stepped outside, but once they heard the Kaiju was down, that much needed relief and supplies were thirty minutes out, he’d just needed a moment away from Targaryen. And… to see, to see that all the people were safe. The base was secure; Targaryen would be fine. But instead —

 _Gods_ , there are so many people here: soldiers who are safe, _safe now_ , it took days but the Kaiju is _dead_. And the civilians, refugees. Desperate, scared people — _Gods fucking damnit_ , all here to be protected from danger and instead —

“Belay that order!” Jaime bellows again in response to a demand for clarification. He has absolutely no authority to counter Targaryen’s orders, but if he just gets there _fast enough_ he’ll be able to stop him.

He slams through a door, and it’s all Brienne can do to keep up with him. She shouts for him, but it’s no use. It isn’t until Brienne arrives with him to the command centre that she becomes distantly aware of Oathkeeper booting up its plasma canon. Podrick, as though through a thick wall, shouts, “Pull him out, Tarth!” and she tries to tell him _she’s trying_ , but Jaime is raising his gun.

“Stand down, Councillor,” he says. He’s hoping Targaryen will snap out of it, will turn his outrage instead on a Lannister daring to point a gun at him, but Aerys seems to look straight through him. The one and only advisor Aerys had allowed in with him has gone and Jaime’s alone here. Alone with Aerys. Alone.

“You aren’t alone,” Brienne says loudly, beside him, emotion gripping her throat. Jaime’s heart is hammering, he’s so frightened, and she understands that and it _hurts_. “Lannister — this isn’t real. You’re in Oathkeeper, remember? We’re in the Shatterdome, safe. _Jaime_. I’m here. Come back to me.” Jaime inclines his head just slightly.

“You aren’t alone,” she says again and Brienne thinks maybe, _maybe_ —

“Destroy it all!”

_Fuck._

“Put down the comms, Councillor,” Jaime says. He lifts his weapon higher; maybe the threat had not been obvious enough? Surely, _surely —_

“ _Finish what it started_. Destroy the base! Destroy them all! Destroy them all!”

“I don’t know —” comes a new voice. Younger, more panicked than before. Jaime grits his teeth. “Should we destroy the base?”

Jaime taps the mic on his ear piece and barks, “Don’t you dare! The Kaiju is _dead_! There’s no danger! _Belay that order!_ ”

“It’s a direct order!” the other voice returns.

The Councillor hasn’t stopped. _Destroy the base! Destroy them all! Finish it! Destroy the base!_

She’s not sure when _it_ became _them_ , but there’s some sadistic cruelty to the order, and she feels a wave of revulsion as Jaime thinks, terrified, _It isn’t about the Kaiju._

Brienne desperately wants to punch Aerys, tackle him, _anything_ to make him stop. Instead he seems to be getting _louder_ —

The voice in his ear says, “I think — The Councillor is saying — He commands the — I _have_ to follow —”

“ _NO!_ ”

The shout is from both of them —

Jaime’s finger is tightening on the trigger, Brienne feels the plasma canon ready —

The connection shatters.

Oathkeeper powers down and Brienne gasps through her disorientation, then she hears a garbled flurry of words from her co-pilot. She quickly disengages, chucks her helmet away, running to his side. She hits the sequence for release, stretching her arms around him. Jaime sags against her, heavy, and she carefully sinks with him to the ground. She removes his helmet, loosens the front piece of his suit, and he sucks in deeper breaths. He’s still muttering, the look on his face dazed and helpless, and Brienne brushes the hair from his forehead and adjusts her hold to keep him closer. It’s awkward in their suits, but Jaime’s head falls to her shoulder, and she can hear him more clearly in her ear: a mess of _belay_ and _destroy_ and _gods gods please no_.

She holds him closer, haphazardly massages his scalp, tells him _you’re safe_ , over and over, _you’re safe now Lannister_ , until finally he whispers _my name is Jaime_ before going silent.

It’s only then Brienne lets the medics take them away.


	3. if you never look away from the drop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne and Jaime confront the fall out of the events from their first drift. Ah, among other things.
> 
>   
> _“Touchy, Tarth,” Hunt says. Her fist tighten, she squares her shoulders, reminds herself she isn’t one to initiate fights. Not anymore. Still, she shifts to the balls of her feet. Hunt continues, “I’m only saying, evidently the great Jaime Lannister isn’t actually up to snuff.”_
> 
> _“Shut up,” she growls. Jaime lightly touches her arm. She turns her head and he shakes his. She sets her jaw, feeling mulish, but his mouth quirks in an almost grin at her and Brienne reluctantly eases just a little._
> 
> _Then Hunt says, “Never took you for one to be done in by a pretty boy, Tarth. Just think, we might have been compatible, if only you’d’ve let me —” Jaime’s calm vanishes. In a flash he’s around her and his fist connects with Hunt’s mouth._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks as always to C for enthusiasm, support & giving this a read for sense-making! Remaining mistakes are mine with apologies.
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: there are oblique references to past traumas and sexual harrassment, but nothing detailed. If anyone feels other content warnings or tags ought to be added, please let me know; I'll always flag for anything requested.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, and enjoy!

Brienne is released before Jaime is, and goes back to her cabin for a shower. She knows the next step: they’ll have to debrief with Olenna. No one did anything _wrong_ exactly; Jaime’s a rookie — _in the drift only_ , she reminds herself, cringing — and it was her fault they went out of alignment. She should have been calm, _neutral,_ for his first time in the drift. An experienced pilot would have been able to navigate her flash, but Jaime isn’t experienced. She’d known that, and let herself get distracted anyway.

So no, no one did anything wrong exactly. But she is still the one who fucked up.

Brienne scrubs hard at her scalp and skin as she showers. Pulls her clothes on roughly. Sits on the edge of her bed. She knows to expect a knock; it shouldn’t take long. Brienne sits, then stands abruptly and shucks her jumper. The first drift affects everyone differently. With Renly, Brienne had felt like an exposed wound for a day or two. Traces of that same feeling skate across her skin, but that isn’t all. Guilt turns twists in her belly; embarrassment at letting things get so far out of hand. And she doesn’t know what she’s feeling about Jaime. Calm, mostly, and she cannot make head nor tail of _that_.

She draws a deep breath and starts moving through practice stances. She had found a regime after her physical recovery in the North. Frustrating at first to return to basics after her injuries, but she soon created a routine each morning that grounded her days. She channels her excess feeling into the stances now.

In the early days of the program, masters from across the two continents would flock to King’s Landing to train pilots. There isn’t an official fighting style for Rangers, so they chose which to master or refine. Brienne isn’t sure how many now reside at the Shatterdome; it isn’t like there are any new pilots any longer but some must want to brush up or learn new techniques. Had she more time, she might do just that. She ought to ask Jaime.

The thought is so casual that Brienne falters in her movements. Before she can process, the knock comes. A sharp rap, followed a moment later by an impatient rat-a-tat pattern. Frowning, Brienne grabs her jumper and is still tugging it down as she opens the door.

“Jaime,” she says, startled.

He looks uncomfortable, dropping his hand. There’s something different about his eyes. He offers a grin that’s more like a grimace and says, “Ah, my protector.” She feels a surge of defensiveness, before recognition floods her. A disconcerting side-effect of first drifts, as the mind filters through a set of memories and emotions that don’t belong to it. She knows, sees some change in him: he means it as a peace offering. She feels off-kilter though, and barely musters a nod. He says, more brisk, “We’ve been summoned, Starch.”

Without trying to be obvious about it, Brienne takes a closer look at Jaime. He’s softened, in some indefinable way. That’s the change in his eyes. In the way he holds himself. His eyebrow ticks up and Brienne steps over the threshold, forcing Jaime down a step.

Turning away to shut the door, Brienne says, “Why did you call me that?”

There’s a brief pause behind her, then Jaime says, “Your shirt, when we met.”

Brienne thinks back — her frown deepens. “That wasn’t mine.” She turns and he’s standing closer than she expected. She thought he might wait down in the corridor, but no. He watches her with a slight expectant smile leaning against the railing, arms crossed. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing his forearms, and the way his shirt smooths across his chest, he looks…

 _He looks_ nothing _, Brienne. Seven help her_. She pushes past him down the steps and starts walking.

When he catches up, she doesn’t look at him but finds herself saying, “A rookie accidentally threw my bags into a puddle when we landed. Then I was soaked walking from the chopper to the Shatterdome and needed something to wear. _This_ is what I usually wear.” She gestures to herself: she prefers these clothes, though it was too cold in the North for so few layers, such basic attire, and she’d not worn them in years. The trousers loose and practical, snug around her hips, with deep pockets. The tank top is still a little short, but it is at least comfortable across her chest. And her jumper is soft against her skin, almost actually big on her. There’s no hiding her height or her size, but these clothes don’t make her feel like a giant, or like she’s cosplaying a sausage.

She glances at Jaime, glares as his eyes linger on her legs. Inexplicably, her skin goose pimples and her cheeks warm. “What?” she snaps.

He startles and looks back to her face. Then he smiles, a little playful, and Brienne decidedly ignores how her stomach swoops.

He says, “It wasn’t only the clothes. You were also somewhat… ah, reserved, shall we say. In your manner.”

“I’m always reserved,” she says, terse. But Jaime’s smile only widens, and Brienne looks away.

He says, “I wouldn’t say that at the moment.”

He’s right. When she had seen him, something in her chest eased, and as they walk she just feels… comfortable. Immediately, the realization makes her _un_ comfortable. She smoothes her hands down her thighs and doesn’t reply. After a breath, Jaime starts filling the silence, seeming to hold forth on whatever crosses his mind. It works though, she can see he knows it does in his slight smile. Brienne thinks wryly that it’s almost like they’re still drifting.

She can’t figure why she isn’t feeling flayed. She only knows this comfort, and that when he’d said ‘ _my protector_ ’ something in her had said, ‘ _Yes_.’ She doesn’t know what to do with that.

And it isn’t that Jaime has changed _so_ drastically… There’s still his intensity, that keen gaze, like he’s constantly searching for something to pick at. But she reads it differently now. There is undoubtedly a critical edge to it, but there’s also an honest curiosity beneath, driving him. Like he’s looking for something specific; gets frustrated or bored when he doesn’t find it. Perhaps it’s that the edge has dulled a little, like he has found whatever it is he’s been looking for. Brienne can’t think at all what that might be.

He asks her questions, about Tarth, about construction, and Brienne surprises herself with answering with more detail than she intends, Jaime’s attention focussed and intent. She isn’t used to sharing so much, but as soon as she starts to feel uneasy, Jaime takes over the conversation, like he can sense her feelings. He might guess at them, she supposes, in the same way she’d recognized his intentions earlier. The drift imparts its strange insights. She remembers following Renly’s moods outside the drift as easily as if they were her own, though he had never tried to treat her in turn. She could easily grow to appreciate this attentiveness, already feels herself softening, and it unnerves her.

And yet still. They’re just arriving at Olenna’s office when Jaime launches into a story about why he calls Marshal Tyrell ‘Thorny,’ and it’s so childish and absurd that Brienne finds herself chuckling, warming at the pleased crinkle at the corner of Jaime’s eyes when she does.

Olenna’s door is closed, voices muffled from inside, so they wait in the corridor. Brienne wonders how well Jaime handles waiting. She’s about to ask, a little nervous to tease him even though she suspects he’ll enjoy it, when the Marshal’s door opens. The instantly recognizable Rhaegar Targaryen shoves someone out, hissing something about them needing to mind themselves. Rhaegar’s eyes flick warningly over her and Jaime before he firmly shuts the door again. Brienne glances towards the man who raises his head, tosses his dark hair out of his eyes —

Brienne recognizes him and her mind goes blank. Then her heart starts pounding like at the start of a fight. Her fists clench.

Hyle Hunt’s eyes glitter when he sees them, and before she even clocks it, Brienne’s moved herself a half step in front of Jaime. She can feel Jaime’s eyes on her face but she ignores him. Plants her feet. Watches Hunt. Hunt’s eyes sweep over her, he smiles knowingly and turns his focus on Jaime.

“That what we’ve all been waiting for, Lannister?” Hunt sneers, disregarding her. Rage makes her throat tight. “You’ve been wallowing around here for _years_ since the Marshal cut you in. Oh, your rookies like your pretty face. But _I_ like _my life_. You’re going to get us all killed, you —”

“Leave off, Hunt,” Brienne says. She feels a faint shiver of relief that her voice comes out strong. Comes out low, and warning.

“Touchy, Tarth,” Hunt says. Her fist tighten, she squares her shoulders. Reminds herself she isn’t one to initiate fights. Not anymore. Still, she shifts to the balls of her feet. Hunt continues, “I’m only _saying_ , evidently the great Jaime Lannister isn’t actually up to snuff.”

“Shut up,” she growls. Jaime lightly touches her arm. She turns her head and he shakes his. She sets her jaw, feeling mulish, but his mouth quirks in an almost grin at her and Brienne reluctantly eases just a little.

Then Hunt says, “Never took you for one to be done in by a pretty boy, Tarth. Just think, we might have been compatible, if only you’d’ve let me —” Jaime’s calm vanishes. In a flash he’s around her and his fist connects with Hunt’s mouth.

“I always knew you were a tedious idiot,” Jaime says as Hunt reels back. His tone is almost bored, but Brienne recognizes the coiled fury beneath. “But a _wager_ , Hunt?” He jabs Hunt again, then dodges Hunt’s return, grabs his arm and swings him into one of the stone support columns. Jaime growls, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Stunned, Brienne says weakly, “Jaime.” She carries the pain of the bet with her, always; it has been folded into her: is scarred, if still tender, tissue around her heart that shapes her view of every man she meets. It confirmed to her her worst fears for her own future, and she learned to live with its truths. But she hadn’t actually considered Jaime seeing it, knowing: maybe seeing Hunt that morning, Arya’s inferences, had brought it to the surface… Renly’s death had overshadowed so much in the intervening years. And Renly had been there; he’d already known when they drifted the first time.

Jaime glances at her when she says his name again. Instead of backing down, whatever he sees on her face seems to solidify his resolve. His teeth clench, his eyes blaze anew, he turns back to Hunt. Brienne’s breath catches in her chest.

“Apologize,” Jaime says, drawled and dangerous. Hunt spits out a gob of blood and pushes away from the wall.

“Fuck you.”

Jaime puts himself between Hunt and Brienne when Hunt goes for him again. She knows she ought to do more to stop them, but she can’t help the thought that Jaime is stunning in a fight, in a way she hadn’t appreciated when they sparred. She had of course recognized his skill, but he hadn’t been trying to beat her, not like this. No matter what Hunt does, Jaime’s expression never changes, mouth turned down, eyes fierce. Still, she can see Jaime is being careful — no damage that might stop Hunt from piloting. She can’t say the same for Hunt, her anger ratcheting up with each hit Hunt tries. Brienne’s hands ache from how tightly they’re fisted, resisting every impulse to step in, even if they’re far outmatched and Hunt fails to land the worst of his hits.

Hunt snarls something Brienne doesn’t catch, but Jaime does. Whatever it was affects Jaime, his expression darkens. When Hunt throws his next punch, Jaime deflects it, slaps the side of his face, then dives, uses Hunt’s momentum to flip him. Jaime pins him, Hunt’s cheek pressed to the floor with Jaime’s boot at his neck as he pulls Hunt’s arm back at an angle that has Hunt spitting obscenities.

“Apologize to Brienne,” Jaime commands. Brienne feels a wash of emotion she can’t name, but her heart thuds heavily in her chest.

“I have already!” Hunt snaps, tries to buck Jaime off but only manages to wrench his arm further.

“Apologize _again_ ,” Jaime says and taps the toe of his boot against Hunt’s cheek.

“ _What in the Seven Hells_ —”

Rhaegar erupts from the Marshal’s office. Jaime is already off Hunt, up on his feet and hanging back. Hunt is slower to rise but immediately lunges towards Jaime. Rhaegar wrestles him back. “You are _Rangers_!” Rhaegar shouts, pushing Hunt, keeping a hand on Hunt’s shoulder as he looks over his shoulder with a glare at Jaime.

Jaime opens his mouth, but Hunt shoves Rhaegar’s hand away and stalks off. Rhaegar glances at Jaime, then looks back after Hunt. When Marshal Tyrell says behind them, “I’ll handle Lannister and Tarth,” Rhaegar nods to her and follows Hunt.

Jaime walks back to Brienne, flexing his hands, his knuckles red. His hair is in disarray, his bottom lip split, and there’s still a ferocious light in his eyes. She knows she should tell him he shouldn’t have done that; that she didn’t, _doesn’t_ , need him to fight for her. It’s all true. But instead she swallows, is startled as her eyes prickle. He glances at her, starts to look away when something on her face arrests his attention. His chin tips up so he can meet her gaze properly, and then… Then his eyes are softening, his mouth easing from its severe line, and Jaime looks so earnest, so yearning, and Brienne… No one has ever stood up for her before. In the wager, she’d had to fight for herself entirely. And literally. She doesn’t know exactly what she’s feeling about any of this, but she is raising her hand, her thumb brushing gently under the cut on his lip.

His eyes are still intent on hers when he winces, but he gives the barest shake of his head, his fingers wrapping loosely around her wrist to stop her pulling away when she whispers, “Sorry.” Brienne swallows again: his thumb is stroking the back of her hand and it’s so unexpectedly, strangely intimate that it threads through her like some pulsing line stretched between they two. She wants… She wants to follow it. Gingerly, Brienne sets the pads of her fingers to rest against the stubble on his cheek. His skin is hot, damp, from his fight. Her thumb hovers at the corner of his mouth.

They startle apart as the Marshal says wryly, “I’m ever so sorry to interrupt. It’s just we’ve had a major incident that needs discussing.”

* * *

The Marshal wastes no time once they’re seated. “I’m benching you until Davos gets back.”

Brienne whips around to look at Jaime who is clearly unhappy but also doesn’t look surprised. She scowls, asks, “Who’s Davos?”

“The head Shatterdome psychologist,” Jaime answers, resigned. “He’s off base visiting his goddaughter.”

“I should not have let you test without speaking with him in the first place,” Olenna says. “He’s already going to be unhappy about this.”

Jaime sighs. “It’s also what I would recommend, were I our trainer.”

“We’re fine,” Brienne says quickly, scowling. “I went out of alignment first. It won’t happen again.”

“No, Brienne,” the Marshal says firmly. “We are going to do this properly from now on.” At Brienne’s expression, Olenna’s eyes narrow thoughtfully. “We were bad about this when you were last with us. And I should have thought to ask: have you ever spoken with a professional about what happened?”

Brienne freezes. The thought of _speaking_ about… anything, everything, _deliberately_ , is one of the worst things she can imagine. She recognizes the irony: letting a stranger literally into her head, with no boundaries or control over what they see. But it’s somehow easier, drifting. Speaking with a therapist means choosing what parts to reveal of herself, and when, and how. Or worse, answering probing questions. She cannot lie, feels compelled to answer questions posed to her, even more so when the questions are direct, and the prospect fills her with cold dread.

She shakes her head vigorously. “Absolutely not.”

Quietly beside her, Jaime sounds surprised when he asks, “Really?”

Brienne looks at him, shakes her head. He’s clearly aghast at her answer, and her hackles rise. She asks, “ _You_ have?”

Jaime offers her a weak grin. “It’s why I’m so well adjusted.” Then, more seriously, though still gently, “Talking with someone, it helps.”

“It is also mandatory,” says Olenna. “Now, Lannister. You might want to go see your brother. He’s in the infirmary.”

Anxiety knots tight in Brienne’s belly making her stiffen: Jaime’s feelings about Tyrion lingering from the drift. Jaime jolts upright, spine straight and body tense, his face drawn and pale. He demands, “What happened?”

“He’s fine. Mostly. While you were in the drift, he took it upon himself to drift with a Kaiju.”

“He _what_?”

“Well, part of one, really. He had some partially preserved portion of a brain, and…” The Marshal waves her hand, huffs in irritation. “Go.”

Brienne meets Jaime’s eyes when he glances at her and nods, then he’s out of his chair and out the door. His steps recede before Brienne turns on the Marshal. All her anxiety and guilt and frustration fuse and she _knows_ it’s irrational but Olenna is meant to be the person Brienne can trust. The Marshal who fixed the program after the hell Tarly made of it. Who looks after the teams, the Shatterdome workers. She isn’t supposed to make mistakes like this, she isn’t supposed to leave pilots unprepared. She’s meant to — she should have looked out for Jaime. Brienne takes a breath, tries to temper her feelings, but when she speaks it still comes out in a snap, “You should have told me.”

The Marshal’s expression is mild. “Told you what?”

Brienne clenches her fists in her lap, gritting her teeth. “You knew, I know you did, and if _I’d_ known —”

“I take it Lannister’s rabbit had something to do with his time with the Service?” At Brienne’s nod, the Marshal stands. She walks to the front of her desk, leaning back against it and crossing her arms. “I did know, yes. It was why I let Jaime into the program. But you also knew about Targaryen — the whole godsdamned continent knows about it. You’re seasoned, Tarth. What in the Seven Hells were _you_ thinking?”

Brienne seethes, but mortification is twining with her rage now, too. “I thought what the rest did: cocky arsehole rich kid who saw a deluded chance to chase his ambition. But the trauma… I didn’t think —”

“Agreed. You did not think,” Olenna interrupts, not unkindly. Brienne still flinches. “It isn’t your fault you flashed back, nor that Lannister chased the rabbit. But it isn’t mine, either. Well.” Olenna pinches the bridge of her nose. “I suppose we shall see what Davos has to say about that. But you and Lannister are certainly not at fault. And trauma? Brienne. There isn’t anyone alive who is not carrying enough trauma they would need a Jaeger to drag it if ever it were made physically manifest. Or had you somehow forgotten about Eastwatch?”

Rearing back into her seat, Brienne murmurs, “Of course not.”

“No.” Olenna lets out a long breath. “What could you possibly have done differently today, had you known?”

Brienne’s mouth snaps shut. There’s no immediate answer to the question, and she tries not to glare at Olenna, though her jaw is still set. The way things had been between her and Jaime at the start… Olenna watches her patiently and nods slightly when Brienne finally mutters, “Nothing,” hunching down in her seat.

“So. We carry on.” Olenna walks back behind her desk. “I am sorry you were taken by surprise about our psych regs though. I should have explained…” She sighs, shakes her head. Brienne’s breath catches in her chest, her hands gripping hard at the seat arms. Some traitorous part of her mind whispers the first drift event may have been avoided had they spoken with someone first, and Brienne categorically rejects it.

Olenna continues, “For what it’s worth, Davos is the best. He will be back in four days, so you’ve some time to get used to the idea. He works with our pilots; he understands. If you find it really does not help, we can explore other options…” Olenna studies Brienne. Gently, if dryly, Olenna says, “Davos doesn’t push, Brienne. You can stop looking like I’m about to submit you to some form of extreme torture.”

It all sounds like nothing so much as torture, but Brienne reluctantly nods and takes her leave.

* * *

“ _What the fuck were you thinking!?_ ”

One of the nurses, Pia, shushes him, but there’s only one person utilizing the infirmary and it’s Tyrion, propped up in one of the beds with the biggest shit-eating grin on his face. Jaime storms over to him. “You _drifted_ with a _Kaiju_?”

“I honestly did not mean to steal your thunder,” Tyrion says, holding his hands up in surrender.

“Steal my —” Jaime splutters. “As if I give two shits about —”

“Jell-o?” Tyrion interrupts, holding up a small container of it. “One of the last on base, I’m told.”

“Tyrion,” Jaime growls. If he weren’t still so frightened for him, he’d throw the fucking Jell-o at his damned fool head.

“Jaime,” Tyrion replies. He smiles widely, then gestures to the seat beside his bed. “I’m fine. Look at me.”

So Jaime does, and closely. He does appear physically fine in that there are no bruises, bandages or casts, but he is hooked up to an IV and has a fevered look to his eyes. One of them is bloodshot besides. Tyrion’s smile is a little off-kilter, too, and as Jaime watches, he twitches.

Jaime growls, “You _do not_ look _fine_.”

“How dare you,” Tyrion says, “This face has got me laid all across the Seven Counties.”

It’s an old joke, and a poor one, but Jaime relents and sits down. Tyrion again offers him the Jell-o, and Jaime finds suddenly that he’s ravenous. He takes it with a scowl and rips the container open. “You’ll want a spoon,” Tyrion says mildly, so Jaime looks his brother in the eyes, puts his mouth to the rim of the cup and slurps the entire contents in one loud and disgusting go. Predictably, Tyrion pulls a face, so Jaime smiles shittily at him. They hold for the span of a breath, before Tyrion chuckles and Jaime eases back into his seat.

“What were you thinking, Tyrion?” Jaime asks, less angry now but anxiety still courses. Setting aside the empty container, he passes a hand down his face. “How is that even possible? The only drift tech is in the Jaegers.”

“I know,” Tyrion says, and almost sounds like he relishes it. Jaime scowls at him again as Tyrion continues unabashed, “I believe the exact words from one Samwell Tarly were, ‘You made a neural bridge from rubbish.’ Honestly, I’m not sure I could have written a better exaltation of my genius.”

Jaime’s gripping the arms of his chair, his jaw clenched. “You made a neural bridge _from rubbish_?”

“Will you stop yelling,” Tyrion snaps. “You’ll put poor Pia’s blood pressure through the roof.”

Jaime’s eyes narrow, but he does like Pia. She’s pleasant and always helpful. She also knows when to be firm with his errant pilots — usually Arya or Grey — and how to get them to comply with doctor’s orders. He takes a deep breath and says, “Fine. Continue.”

It turns out the plan formed after a disagreement between Tyrion and Sam. Sam’s calculations indicated an increase in Kaiju events, systematically. As the category of Kaiju increased, so eventually would their number. They’d had the first Category 4 a day before Brienne arrived on base; Missandei and Grey are due back tomorrow having successfully taken it down. Tyrion wasn’t so sure, believed more data was needed outside of the mathematical parameters Sam worked in. The Kaiju don’t function on algorithms or predictable timetables, and indeed, Tyrion found them to be inexplicably identical at the DNA level, despite their outward physical differences and so how does _that_ fit into Sam’s modelling when one considers…

It’s around this point that Tyrion loses him, and after an indeterminate time in which Jaime tries desperately to at least _look_ like he’s listening to the mathematical particulars of DNA sequencing and how it fits into pattern prediction, Tyrion waves his hands impatiently.

“The _point_ is that I wanted to see if we might glean more information directly from the source,” Tyrion says. Jaime watches him bounce in his bed as he used to do as a child, flushed with the excitement of a new fact or story he was desperate to share with Jaime, and all at once, Jaime is awash with affection. It must show on his face because Tyrion smiles hugely at him. It’s nice, a welcome reprieve, but lasts only a moment before Tyrian’s expression fades into something somber. He says, more carefully, “And we did.”

“You did what?”

“Get more information.” Jaime watches him with deliberate blankness, worry starts to grip him. Tyrion leans forward, and says quietly, “They’re an invading force, Jaime. The Kaiju are the first offensive. Like… like plagues. They take out major population centres. Once the population shrinks enough, the rest come.”

“The rest.”

Tyrion nods and sighs. “It isn’t… There is still hope. Sealing the breach, as the Marshal plans, will stop them. But now Sam and I don’t think it’s as straightforward as previously anticipated. Sam’s managed to get the all-clear and has left to get more… ah, supplies from one of the Marshal’s shadier contacts in Fleabottom.”

“I’m shocked you let him go alone,” Jaime says dryly. He’s already setting this new information aside. He’ll have to consider the ramifications of all this later. Once Davos returns, once he and Brienne are cleared… The main mission is for all Jaegers to back Arya and Hunt as they go to close the breach. They’ve got a couple of weeks at least, and Jaime is uncomfortably aware that what he wants — very much wants — is to process this information with Brienne. Only Brienne. It may be some lingering effect of the drift, but it doesn’t feel like it’s just that…

And _that_ particular revelation is another he wants to work out, but alone. In the privacy of his quarters.

Tyrion squirms, and Jaime refocuses on him. Narrows his eyes. “Tyrion… what aren’t you telling me? Why _did_ you let Sam go without you?”

“The drift may have resulted in… a minor seizure? Stop it, Jaime. I am absolutely fine. The tests all show I’m fine. This is a precaution, you know how they are. The neural load is a lot, as I’m sure you can imagine, and Sam tells me had I _shared_ the load, it might not have —”

“You.” Jaime stops. Thinks of Pia. Takes a deep breath. “You drifted. _Alone_. With a Kaiju.”

“Part of a Kaiju. And it’s not exactly like there’s anyone testing for drift compatibility amongst the scientists,” Tyrion says testily — Jaime thinks it more likely Tyrion doubted his ability to convince another scientist (Sam) to do it — then adds primly, “Thank you for not yelling that one.”

“Oh, as soon as Pia’s off shift, you can bet your arse there will be yelling.”

“You can’t stay here for the next seven hours. Pia’s only just started.”

“You’ve never been one to underestimate me, Tyrion.”

Tyrion glares at him, then his expression shifts as though he’s just remembered something. Turns concerned. “Jaime,” he says, and his tone has gone gently curious in the way which always makes Jaime pliant. His siblings have _always_ known it’s the easiest way to divert him. Jaime resists, but Tyrion continues, that same damned tone, “Your drift… I heard there was some incident.” Jaime cuts his gaze away, past Tyrion’s shoulder, but Tyrion just says again, “Jaime,” more insistently and Jaime can’t ignore him.

“I chased the rabbit,” he admits, still not meeting Tyrion’s eye. “Oathkeeper responded. They shut it down but. It… could have been bad.”

“Oh,” Tyrion says. Jaime tenses, fearing that at long last Tyrion may push the question of what truly happened with Aerys. But instead, Tyrion says, “Your co-pilot, Tarth, she —”

“She’s remarkable,” Jaime interrupts.

He realizes it’s true as soon as it’s out of his mouth, like he’s put words to the feeling lingering in his mind, nesting in his chest. It was the same earlier: he’d meant to call her his protector wryly, to make light of the situation, but instead it had come out sincere. He only had a glimpse of her mind in their few minutes in the drift before it all went sideways, but what lingers is the way she _felt_ … Jaime can’t name a time he’s felt more safe. Like to be in her presence was to be near some gloried combination of the Warrior and the Mother from the old religion. He had fucked it up, a bit, even before the rabbit. Too quick to take offence, to turn sharp. But she’s at the edges of his memories of the rabbit, and he can almost still feel her bulk, reassuring, at his back afterward. And then there’s Hunt: she had put herself bodily between them, despite her history with that sorry wankstain, and as if Hyle Hunt’s opinions might matter one whit to Jaime.

But Brienne. _Brienne matters_.

It had been impulse, the first punch. Jaime flexes his hands: his knuckles will bruise, and he ought to put salve on the one that’s split, but he can’t bring himself to regret it. The way Brienne had said his name, that look on her face, as though no one had ever — his jaw tightens. Then after, she had touched his face, so gently. It had been… _nice_. Gods. It had been really quite nice.

He isn’t sure what to do with it, though, or what it means. _Might_ mean. Brienne is, is… stubborn. And sweet. And too hard on herself. And incredible. He can’t explain it, maybe it’s the drift, it _must_ be the drift. But it’s also, simply and undeniably, true. Somehow she matters. To him. _Gods, what an unsettling thought._ He’s known her just about twenty-four hours.

But Brienne is also skittish and prickly, he knows: from their interactions and also from the drift. Almost every poke pierces her deeply, no matter how she might try to shield herself, might present as though she’s brushing it off, and Jaime sometimes thinks all he is is barbs.

He cannot tell Tyrion any of that, though, and his brother is sitting silent in front of him. Jaime blurts, “Brienne piloted Oathkeeper alone after Baratheon died. Shadow had managed to tear off one of Oathkeeper’s arms, its legs were damaged. The cockpit was open to the elements. She took down Shadow solo. Then managed to maneuver Oathkeeper to collapse on the beach outside city limits so it wouldn’t cause more damage, or worse, kill more civilians. She even…” He trails off at Tyrion’s lifted eyebrows. A touch defensive, Jaime asks, “What?”

Tyrion shakes his head, but there’s a loosening around his eyes that makes Jaime feel uncomfortably like he may still have said more than he intended. “I should like to meet your co-pilot,” is all Tyrion says. Then, more brisk, “I had read the battle report at the time, of course. But it sounds as though some key particulars were glossed over.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Jaime lies, as though he hadn’t read the report years before, then again last night after their spar. The battle summary had been mostly accurate, but the conclusion, a stilted, _After the loss of co-pilot Renly Baratheon, Ranger Brienne Tarth was ultimately successful in killing the Kaiju. There was minimal loss of civilian life and damage to city infrastructure was within acceptable parameters. Solo piloting remains prohibited._ As though _that_ had been the main takeaway, and not that Brienne Tarth was fucking remarkable.

Tyrion says, “Hm,” like he doesn’t believe him. He scans Jaime’s face, then says, “And your face?” Tyrion gestures to Jaime’s knuckles. “It looks like you got in a fight.”

Jaime leans back, passes a hand over his eyes. He can’t tell Tyrion all of it, but word will travel. It was only after Thorny interrupted him and Brienne that Jaime realized they had accumulated something of a crowd.

“You’ll hear soon enough, I suppose. I punched Hyle Hunt.”

There’s a pause as Tyrion stares at him incredulously, then he shivers. Jaime’s eyes narrow, so Tyrion says quickly, “Why now? Hunt’s always been a tedious idiot. But rather a basic one.”

Jaime shrugs. “He was being worse than usual.”

“How could Hunt possibly get any worse? He’s not got the wits.”

“Wit doesn’t factor,” Jaime says darkly.

“No, I suppose it rarely does,” Tyrion says. He tips his head, watching Jaime curiously. Just as Jaime starts to feel awkward, Tyrion yawns just as Jaime’s stomach growls. Tyrion slants Jaime a wry look and Jaime rolls his eyes in response.

“I’ll be back in seven hours,” Jaime warns, standing, and Tyrion grins up at him. Jaime leans down, wraps his arms around Tyrion, holds him tightly. When Tyrion hugs him back, Jaime presses a kiss to the side of his little brother’s head.

Pulling away, Jaime grumbles, “Whatever ‘rubbish’ you used has left your head smelling like you dunked it in the rusted gears and old rations bucket.”

“There’s no such thing as a ‘rusted gears and old rations bucket.’”

“I’m only telling you what you smell like.”

“When did I last call you a git?”

“Two days ago.”

“You’re a git.”

“Love you, too, little brother.”

When Tyrion feigns retching as Jaime walks away, Jaime flips him off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick shout out to an incredible Pacific Rim fic which has stayed with me for years, and introduced to me the idea of the Jaeger program having mental health support (as well it should!) [A Cry Answered](https://archiveofourown.org/works/934852) by @imperfectcircle. 
> 
> The summary reads:  
>  _Fuyumi can read between the lines of Mako’s file. The justification for having Mako on the base is paper thin -- strings have been pulled and favours have been bartered, and somewhere along the line someone decided Fuyumi was the perfect combination of talent and expendability to be brought into this mess. It’s only slightly closer to a compliment than an insult -- the balance tipped by the child at the centre of this, nine years old and heart-breakingly brave._  
>  \-- Scenes from the year after Stacker and Mako first meet.
> 
> If you enjoy Pacific Rim, and particularly the relationship between Stacker and Mako, I would highly recommend this fic. It's beautifully and carefully written; a treasure.


	4. can you steady all the hands that you hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne have dinner, and look on Oathkeeper.
> 
>   
> _When Jaime reaches the mess, Brienne’s just ahead of him. The conversation stutters at their arrival, all eyes turn to them, and he watches the line of Brienne’s shoulders tense as she continues to walk. The deliberate deep breath she takes, how she channels it into easing her shoulders down, as if she isn’t bothered by the attention._
> 
> _He knows the lie._
> 
> _Jaime jogs up to her, says quietly, “Hustle, Starch.” She flinches a little, and Jaime takes a breath, forcefully bites back the impulse to take offence. No barbs, he reminds himself. He manages to continue blithely, “Grab dinner, then come with me. I’ve something I want to show you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to C for her enthusiasm, encouragement and giving this a read-thru for general sense-making as always! And to M, for her opinion on two lines of dialogue <3
> 
> Content warnings: discussions and allusions to past abuses, traumas, and an incident of sexual harassment.

When Jaime reaches the mess, Brienne’s just ahead of him. The conversation stutters at their arrival, all eyes turn to them. He watches the line of Brienne’s shoulders tense as she continues to walk. The deliberate deep breath she takes. How she channels it into easing her shoulders down, as if she isn’t bothered by the attention.

He knows the lie.

Jaime jogs up to her, says quietly, “Hustle, Starch.” She flinches a little, and Jaime takes a breath, forcefully bites back the impulse to take offence. _No barbs_ , he reminds himself. He manages to continue blithely, “Grab dinner, then come with me. I’ve something I want to show you.”

“We can eat here,” she says.

“There’s too much attention,” he says. It isn’t a lie exactly; Jaime has never _liked_ attention. But it’s always been there, all his life in various ways, and he’s mostly learned to ignore it. Brienne, on the other hand…

Her jaw sets, mulish, and Jaime has the most bizarre sensation that he’s lived that expression before. She says, “I won’t be cowed by them.”

Thing is, Jaime knows this isn’t exactly a bad kind of attention. There’s so much high-stakes stress and so little trite drama that the slightest disturbance of a human persuasion gets everyone excited. When Missandei and Grey returned from leave sixteen months ago, sporting matching smitten smiles which wouldn’t fade, speculation about what exactly had gone on in Naath kept everyone occupied for a month and a half. Missandei had finally told them all to fuck off, that it was no one’s business. 

… Well. She used rather a gentler tone, saying things like _appreciate that you care_ , and _our privacy is very important to us_ , and _thank you_ , because Missandei is significantly more patient than Jaime. It had also worked, of course, because, as Arya had once put it, _Missandei is the human personification of a gentle summer breeze, and Grey could likely kill anyone with his thumb_.

“Who said anything about you?” he asks, and when Brienne looks at him suspiciously, he pulls a face at her, exaggerated puppy dog eyes and a dramatic pout. He hasn’t resorted to utilizing this expression in years, but it’s been successful in the past. Brienne huffs, but she also colours slightly. Jaime presses his advantage, “Brienne. I am a delicate petal. Please, be my good reason to leave the mess.”

“You’re a muppet, is what you are,” she mutters, but her mouth twitches and he knows he’s won.

Once they’ve gotten their food, Jaime leads her out. As soon as they’re well away from the mess, Jaime pauses, turns to face her. Brienne stops, and, after a quiver of wariness across her features, she tilts her head and waits. Maybe as he seeks to soothe his prickles around her, she’s doing the same. Her astonishing eyes are steady on him, and trusting.

Jaime says, “I thought we might go to a spot I know: in Oathkeeper’s hangar. I know you haven’t seen Oathkeeper yet.” He sounds a little breathless and feels an unfamiliar tickle of embarrassment. He clears his throat, continues, “Only if you’re all right with that, though.”

Brienne opens her mouth to respond; seems to change her mind. She nods, then nibbles at her lip and Jaime hesitates. He tries not to be distracted by her teeth and her lip, and instead focuses on her expression. He raises an eyebrow, and Brienne rolls her eyes in return. “Let’s go,” she says, forcefully, then colours a little and Jaime smiles.

As they walk, Brienne asks, “How was your brother?” She sounds worried, and Jaime warms with gratitude.

He rolls his eyes and says wryly, “Tyrion was well enough to round out our conversation by calling me a git, so…” 

Beside him, Brienne hums thoughtfully and murmurs, “Git,” like she’s testing the word out. Jaime slants a look at her to find her watching him, expression hesitant but eyes sparkling. It’s distracting, but he manages to say lightly, “I think I prefer muppet,” and she cuts her gaze away. He likes the way the corner of her lips twitch in the slightest of smiles. 

They sober as he continues onto what Tyrion learned; what Sam is busy with presently. Jaime had been right, earlier, to want to digest the information with Brienne. She listens closely, her expression growing only ever more resolute. And if her chin wobbles once or twice, her eyes are always calm. He likes calm. He also likes her eyes.

He leads her to one of the temporary construction scaffolds turned permanent structures in Oathkeeper’s hangar. The lift shudders as it starts, but Brienne doesn’t flinch, simply joins him at the edge of the platform, watching Oathkeeper through the metal framework as they rise. They get out on the sixteenth storey, and Jaime leads Brienne up another two to his perfect spot. 

“What do you think?” he asks.

Brienne stands a little hunched, resting her tray on the safety rail. She stares at Oathkeeper for long moments and her expression turns so wistful that Jaime starts to regret the idea. He’s about to suggest they leave when Brienne says, “This… This is good. It’s. Jaime. Thank you.”

She looks at him then, and Jaime returns her wavering smile. He gestures for Brienne to sit; doesn’t miss how she settles close to a support strut, hesitates, then deliberately places her food tray beside her so it creates a distance between herself and where Jaime might sit. He swallows back, again, a needle of defensiveness and instead follows suit. His tray goes beside hers, and he beside it. Brienne lets out a long, silent breath, and despite not liking it, missing already the sensation of her warm, solid bulk beside him as they walked here, rose side by side in the lift, Jaime accepts it. 

They sit high enough to be around mid-chest as Oathkeeper is lit up before them. Hundreds of feet, thousands of tons, utterly breathtaking. His. 

No: _theirs._

The work being done is just routine maintenance: there’s a crew at its feet and another suspended by its chest. The working sounds echo strangely in the hangar, and the light casts tall shadows and soft glows. It’s a soothing spot; one he used to come to when Oathkeeper was being rebuilt in his first year in the program. When the distance from his fellow recruits became too much, or he didn’t want Tyrion’s nervous sympathy, or the pressure… 

“I found this spot my first year here,” he tells her to escape that particular mental spiral. “At first it was a general maintenance hangar. But then Oathkeeper came back from Eastwatch and this became its dedicated place. Rebuilding Oathkeeper was an enormous undertaking. It took... ” He trails off; Brienne is stiff, unmoving, beside him. “Sorry.”

“No,” Brienne says, though her voice is strained. She shifts uncomfortably. “I should be apologizing,” she says on a heavy breath. Jaime looks at her, raises his eyebrow. She speaks towards the empty space in front of them, “First drifts are… They’re difficult, at the best of times. And,” she sucks in a deep breath, drops her chin to look towards the ground, hundreds of feet below them. “I brought not only my memories, but Renly’s.”

“Brienne —” He wants to tell her he knew all this, even if it had been more academic than practical, but she continues over him.

“When… When Renly… was taken,” her voice cracks on the euphemism, and it’s all Jaime can do to stop himself reaching for her hand. He’s not sure — he thinks she might appreciate it, but doesn’t know for certain, doesn’t want to scare her away. He clenches his hands into fists, instead. Brienne continues, “We were still connected. I felt… I felt…” 

Jaime knows. He had thought he knew horror — _does_ know horror — but this was a different kind entirely. Brienne’s shock when the Kaiju broke through the visor: she had already been reeling, in agony, from the Kaiju ripping away the arm she controlled; then — swamped with Renly’s terror in the last moments as the Kaiju gripped him, yanked — 

The shared helplessness between Brienne and Renly in those moments is going to haunt him, he knows. He thinks it was also that helplessness which had triggered his own. Or rather it was that feeling, so resonant with his own past, which had been the final spark on a situation primed to explode. 

A shiver runs down his spine, his stomach clenches, and Jaime does reach for her then. He leans awkwardly, taking her hand from where it clenches on her thigh. 

Brienne stiffens more, which he’d not have thought possible. With a wave of embarrassed irritation, he goes to pull his hand back but her fingers slip through his. She still isn’t looking at him, and they’re too far apart, Jaime’s arm is stretched uncomfortably across the distance between them, but relief trembles in his chest. It isn’t quite enough: he wants to press up close beside her, lend her some strength from his body should she want it. But he feels acutely the space created by their trays between them, and judging by the flickers on her face as she adjusts her hold on him slightly, this is enough for Brienne.

She continues, haltingly, “He was _so_ _afraid_ , Jaime.” Her breath comes short and shuddery, and Jaime squeezes her hand. Her fingers lie cool across his knuckles, the pads of her fingers press gently into his skin. She swallows, says, “I couldn’t _do_ _anything_.”

“I felt it. I know,” he says quietly. Brienne finally looks at him. Her eyes are wide, wet, and her chin is trembling. Her face is too pale, like the blood has drained from it. But there’s resolve in her eyes, too. A shadow of the resolve he remembers — the last moments, before he’d fallen through time and into his own personal hell. 

She calls on it then. He sees it: her expression smooths, her back straightens a little, she loosens her hold on his hand. He’s embarrassingly glad when she doesn’t pull away entirely. She says, “When you called me a coward yesterday…” Brienne shakes her head when Jaime winces, her fingers tighten fleetingly on his. “It was partly right. I told Catelyn Stark once that there was a courage to what she does, in the North. Different to what, what we do. What we _will_ do. But no less important. Building homes, and safety, and _peace_ for people who have nothing… I think she. I’m fairly certain she thinks all we’re doing is postponing the inevitable. What good is brick and mortar against a Kaiju?” Jaime cringes internally as she snorts, a bitter sound he doesn’t expect from her. His hand tightens, compulsively, and Brienne sucks in a sharp breath. “Sorry,” she says, and before Jaime can tell her not to apologize, she continues, “Regardless. Catelyn still persisted. No one else might guess that she continued despite herself. She is so _strong_ , Jaime. The work she does… It isn’t for the faint of heart.”

“You did that, too, Brienne,” he says. He doesn’t mean to frown, but he can feel the recriminations forming in her: had glimpsed those, too. 

The corner of her mouth lifts, tugs at the scar on her cheek. “Catelyn said something to that effect, too. It was kind, but. She was wrong. I should have come back here years ago. I couldn’t… living in someone else’s head… We were co-pilots for years. And after, to be — alone — the silence was…” Brienne sucks in a breath, shakes her head. “But I should have come back. Instead of ‘hiding in the North’.” Her tone is so wry, brittle, and he flinches at his own words repeated back to him. 

“ _I_ was wrong. Catelyn _wasn’t_ ,” he says firmly. Then, frustrated, “For the love of the Seven. Quite aside from losing someone you lo—” he cuts himself off as Brienne tenses again; it hadn’t been something she _told_ him, just something that was obvious in her memories. It had been clear to him, too, that Renly hadn’t appreciated her; hadn’t deserved her regard. Not that it’s his place to comment; he understands the impulse to cleave to scraps of kindness. He course corrects, continues, “Aside from losing someone you cared for, you were also badly injured. You weren’t wasting away in the North.” She doesn’t look convinced, and Jaime knows, he _knows_ , this is a wound left to fester for years. One conversation won’t solve anything. 

Still, he narrows his eyes, resists the urge to tighten his hold on her hand for emphasis and instead says pointedly, “You can’t tell me you never helped any of the refugees settle into their homes, Starch.”

“Of course I did,” Brienne says, frowning at him. “But that’s not —”

“No, Brienne,” he says sharply. “There are no caveats here.”

Her expression turns mulish, but Jaime thinks he sees some longing there, too. Longing that he might be right.

She huffs at his expression, grits out, “I’ll grant you that I helped. But I… it was still cowardly to stay away as long as I did.”

“I can’t think of a single person who would be back here after what happened to you.”

“You would —”

“I would _not_.”

Brienne frowns at him. “You _would_ , Jaime.”

“Absolutely not.” She rolls her eyes, and Jaime scowls. “Surely you don’t need me to say it.” Brienne’s frown only deepens, that mulishness again, and Jaime snaps, “You are the bravest person I’ve ever met.” It comes out, somehow, like an insult, but Brienne doesn’t seem to notice.

“Sure,” she says with a scoff.

“Stubborn, too,” he mutters. She narrows her eyes at him. He glares back. Says more insistently, “Bull-headed.” There’s no real heat to it, and he isn’t going to break eye contact first. Brienne might be stubborn, but Jaime has one thing she doesn’t: the finely tuned ability to make a nuisance of himself.

Eventually Brienne huffs and looks, scowling, away from him. Petty victory is short lived as she eases her hand from his with a final squeeze. It isn’t a rejection, he tells himself, even if it feels like one, even if immediately he misses the contact. He knows — again, academically — that pilots often want to be close to one another, touching, after a drift. Some residual need for connection. She had held him, he remembers, immediately after, but he was so addled he was barely aware of it. Then the sweep of her thumb at his lip, the warm points of her fingers at his jaw… He can’t recall ever feeling so simultaneously tethered and set adrift. It had been her eyes, too, wide and almost tender... 

But perhaps that’s all this is, this want to touch her, be close: that strange drift side effect. Their drift had been strong, their compatibility deep. It shakes him. He had always known there would be someone who could match him; he had been sure it would not be to the degree he longed for on the darkest nights, that he’d never get _this_. Particularly after everything with his sister fell apart. Maybe it’s just the lack of anyone filling that void — a void he understands now was never truly filled. It would explain this impulse, and maybe also why the delay might make the need that much more pronounced.

Disappointment at this explanation leaves him cold. But he shakes it off, returns to his food. 

Brienne says haltingly, “It takes bravery to rebuild your life.”

Jaime tenses. His hand clenches around his fork and he forces himself to let it go, lay it on the tray. “It does,” he says warily. He knows it’s true; has seen it before on this very base. Has also seen those who simply seem to fade from the world. But he knows Brienne is thinking of him. And he doesn’t want to make a liar of her, but he is not _brave_.

“You did that,” she says.

He passes a hand down his face. “Not really,” he says. “I was lucky.”

She scoffs. “I would not say that.”

“No... Lucky is the wrong word. Thorny took pity on me. That’s the only reason I’m here.”

“Jaime.” Her voice is unyielding. “I know how hard you worked to get here.”

“That was survival, Starch. No bravery involved.”

“Now who’s stubborn,” she teases, tentative, and Jaime finally looks at her. She’s so sincere, the smile easing just the corners of her mouth is a gentle encouragement. And he’s talked about all this, with Davos, and a little with Thorny. He can tell the person who’s been in his head, surely.

“Being a Ranger became important to me,” he starts, and Brienne watches him with such an open, patient expression that he has to stop. He frowns to himself. He swallows. He continues, “After Aerys… I do not give a single fuck about the accolades or reverence some Jaeger pilots get. There’s no ambiguity. There’s records kept of every single thing: each action made by the Jaeger, by the pilots; every word spoken in the cockpit, in LOCCENT. Everything is documented, recorded. There can be no question…”

He studies Brienne’s face: a small furrow has appeared on her forehead. He finds he wants to go on, to tell her how… He had only started speaking with Davos about Cersei a few months ago. They’re rebuilding their relationship, one text or email at a time. Because he loves his sister, and she’s trying. And he better understands the way her abuses worked, which helps. But shame still lives, a squirming mass in his gut when he thinks back on those years. 

Drawing a deep breath, Jaime says, “Cersei convinced me to join the Service. Our final year of uni. She… said it would be a good way to stay close. We had rarely been apart.” His throat tightens. He had been so willingly led, then; unconfident in his own decisions, enamoured of Cersei’s assurances. His tongue sticks. Forcing himself to swallow, he manages the next words. “She liked to call me her mirror. She said I might also be her guard.”

“I think I…” Brienne’s lips thin. She says quietly, “I think I remember… something of that.”

Sarcastically, he says, “It did not go to plan.” 

He had never fully been under her thumb; he takes some small relief in that. His open love for Tyrion, how he tried to protect him from both Cersei and their father, was forever a cause of tension between them. His joining the footie team, playing most evenings, every Saturday morning. His relationship with Addam, casual and comforting across his time at uni. A scattering of other things over the years. A series of lights, Davos had suggested, which Jaime had lit for himself. He isn’t ready to detail these things for Brienne yet, though. 

“What was _meant_ to happen is that Cersei would request me when I finished training. Typically clients would make their requests. Those requests were met. Who, after all, would deny the wealthiest, most influential of Westeros?” He sneers at this. Brienne’s eyes are so wide, her freckles stark against her face gone so pale. Jaime breathes out heavily, tries to keep his voice more even as he goes on, “But Aerys learned of me. To this day, I don’t know how. He had resented my father for decades; some decades-old hostile takeover. My father was not best pleased with my decision to join the Service: it precluded me from taking up the mantle he had prepared me in the business. Aerys knew this. In order to exact some kind of vengeance, Aerys requested me.” The words are vinegar on his tongue and he washes them away with a swallow of water. “I was angry, but could do nothing about it. Cersei had been furious, of course. But not so much as I expected. I started to wonder if perhaps there was another reason Cersei had suggested the Service: perhaps our father would finally consider her as his protege. He did not, but the Board did, after his death.”

Drawing a deep breath that loosens the tightness in his chest, Jaime mutters, “I didn’t mean to tell you everything. Sorry.”

“I… You don’t need to apologize, Jaime,” Brienne says. Jaime looks over at her, and she gives him a small, sad smile.

A vindicated kind of frustration flares. He blurts, “I’m not sure what I expected. At first I was only bitter, frustrated. I grew up surrounded by wealth, obviously, but serving Aerys… Fuck, the excess. Even before we ended up at the base, I was starting to loathe it all. I think you... saw. The tents. While Aerys managed to _procure_ ,” Jaime _hates_ the euphemism, “the finest Dothraki horse meat from Essos despite all the air and water travel and trade restrictions after the first Kaiju, the tents were the cheapest Aerys could get. We were lucky it was so dry in those months: the first rain or heavy wind would have them collapsing. Those desperate people, all their remaining belongings… There were rumours, too, about how Aerys treated refugees who caught his attention. It never happened when I was on duty, but I saw how he looked at them when we surveyed camp.” It still makes his skin crawl; he had tried to report it at the time. Had been rebuffed. Some fuckery which haunts him about following orders and respecting client privacy. He knows now he should have gone to the press, but he had felt boxed in, then. “By the time the Kaiju attacked off our shore, all I wanted was to protect those people from Aerys. Keep them safe.”

“Jaime,” Brienne says. “You did keep people safe. Hundreds — thousands safe. Arguably, more than that, since who knows what the Councillor was doing the rest of the time. I don’t understand why the report was so —”

Jaime laughs. He hears the bitterness in it, hears as Brienne’s mouth literally snaps shut. Feels he should apologize but instead finds himself saying, “The Targaryen PR was excellent. Aerys had better PR than lawyers. And his lawyers were exceptional, so it just goes to show.” He glances at Brienne, finds himself smiling humourlessly at her sour expression. Thinks _again_ that he should apologize, and again can’t seem to help himself. “It depends on the day whether I’m glad or not that he died. At least it wasn’t murder, I suppose. _Self defence_. _Reasonable force_. _He was old, went into shock_. Etcetera, etcetera. The only reason I’m not rotting in prison is because the Crownlands were a fucking mess, and my father has more money than the gods and better lawyers even than Aerys.”

She frowns at him, shakes her head. “The lives of all those people against one evil old man?”

Jaime startles at her use of the word _evil_. He had mentally referred to Aerys as evil for years, some twisted refrain to make himself feel… If not better, then at least not worse: Aerys was evil, Jaime might not be _good enough_ but at least he isn’t _evil_. He’s never heard anyone else apply the word to Aerys, though. No, from the way many spoke of him, one would think Aerys was some paragon of generous philanthropy. Jaime had even heard someone refer _admiringly_ to his _temper_. 

Brienne murmurs, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to borrow your word.” And that is somehow worse. Jaime looks away from her wide eyes and earnest expression. The feeling of raw exposure itches up his spine and across his shoulders. Brienne breathes out a frustrated breath, says, “I’m sorry. I’m not… I’ve never been good with — words. But I got … impressions of the other things you witnessed, or heard about. And… the situation was horrific. I can’t say I’m glad this rests on your shoulders. But I am fucking grateful Aerys Targaryen is dead.”

Jaime’s head snaps back around and he frowns at her. No one, not even Davos, had ever expressed _gratitude_ that Jaime had _killed someone_. “What?” 

“Honestly. And in any case, Targaryen should have been removed from office long before you even joined the Service. You should never have been in that position.” Jaime watches her, dumbfounded, as anger takes command of her features. “You were young and green, and they’d given you an assignment well above your experience level _._ They left the Councillor otherwise _alone_ , even knowing what they did. And they all knew. I can tell you from experience: they all knew. Or many of them did. Likely the rest suspected. And they were better placed to act on any of it. Those fucking useless…” She flounders, then lands on, “ _Shits_.”

Jaime stares at her as she breathes heavily through her outrage. It’s inane, but the first thing he lands on, he protests, “I was not _that_ young. I was twenty-three.”

“Fine,” she says impatiently. “But still barely an adult. Fresh out of uni. The rest should have known better. Should have _been_ better.”

Jaime looks at the firm set of her downturned mouth, the fierce pull of her brows, the blazing light of judgement in her eyes and… laughs. “You’re right,” he says when she turns her scowl on him. “Of course, you’re right. You’re only the second person to say so. But…” 

He laughs again, because… because he’s never known anyone like her. So stalwart, her expectations of behaviour not compromised in the slightest. It radiates off her, the firm belief that she should not lower her standards, but rather the world ought to rise to meet them. After all, she strives to meet them every day. And, godsdamn it all, but she’s right. They’d all be better off if everyone sought to be as good as Brienne. 

He says as much, and Brienne’s face goes a splotchy pink. Affection blossoms in his chest, flushing out his lingering anger, and he just manages to resist the urge to brush his knuckles across her cheek to learn what the heat there feels like.

But Brienne's expression shadows of a sudden, and Jaime frowns. She draws a slow breath, then haltingly says, “Do we… Do you want… Should I… explain about Hunt?”

Brienne’s flush fades leaving her freckles stark on her skin, her scar more pronounced. She twists to face him fully, straightening her spine, a mirror to the earlier gathering of strength from the mess and it leaves Jaime with a quiet ache in his chest. He’d known there had been an incident, years ago, when Randyll Tarly was Marshal. He never would have imagined it had been a wager amongst the men about who could first have sex with the only woman pilot in the entire program; some expectation that they’d then be able to pass her around. His blood boils. And the things they’d _told_ her… Honourable, kind, brave Brienne. Brienne who thinks herself a coward and yet still stands up to her own bullies on behalf of someone else. 

He should have hit Hunt harder.

He loosens his jaw, unclenches his teeth. Says, “Only if you want to.”

“I don’t,” she says quickly. 

Jaime nods. “I understand.”

“But… I do want to make clear that I… definitely do not need you to fight him for me.” She says it gently, even if there is a steel thread through it. 

“I cannot say I regret punching Hunt in his smug face,” he says. “But I am sorry for making you uncomfortable.”

“I understand the impulse,” Brienne says quietly. Then she huffs out a rueful chuckle. “When he started talking to _you_ , I almost. Well.” He watches her long fingers uncurl from the fist she had made in her lap, then curl again, clench, her knuckles whitening. He thinks, vaguely, that he shouldn’t be pleased that someone wants to commit an act of violence on his behalf. And yet it gathers in his belly. He can feel himself grinning.

He looks back up to her face to find her watching him closely. His grin widens, and Brienne’s cheeks flush again when he parrots her lightly, “I understand the impulse. Evidently.” After a pause while he watches Brienne’s expression flicker through a series of emotions he only understands a fraction of, Jaime takes pity. He says cheerfully, “To be honest, I’d quite happily toss him over the edge of this platform. Tyrion would help me make it look like an accident. Though I hear I’ve quite the reputation for getting away with murder.”

This startles a laugh from Brienne. A _true_ one. Too-loud guffaws followed by a series of stifled gasping snickers. It’s an inelegant, silly sound; objectively he knows that. But perhaps he is a silly man because her laughter expands warm in his chest, tickling around his heart before it buoys up his throat to bubble in his mouth until he’s laughing with her. 

And watching her, his stomach swoops. He had thought her face lit with her smiles before: he had no idea. Her eyes shine at him now, the high colour on her cheeks turning the already stunning blue an utterly arresting shade. Her lips pull wide, her uneven teeth on full display, and _Gods_. He will do everything possible to share this with her again.

Brienne’s laughter eventually stutters into quiet, his own fades, and then Jaime is simply watching Brienne as she watches him. "Brienne," he accidentally purrs, but doesn't know what comes next. She sucks in a quick breath, something in her eyes shifts and then the air between them changes. Charges. Brienne’s mouth opens slightly, he can hear the soft pant of her breathing, and Jaime wets his lips. He's aware, suddenly, of the thud of his heart in his ears as her eyes flick to his mouth, tracking his tongue, and heat prickles under his skin, settles in his abdomen. When she meets his eyes again, there’s some longing he shouldn’t name — he knows: _she won't want him to name this_ — but it resonates. It's been there since she pinned him to the mat, since he had glimpses into the very core of her in the drift. Everything he's seen and learned since then, and Jaime prickles with irritation with himself because he shouldn't but it's hard in this moment to deny that he _wants_ —

A loud clunk echoes from Oathkeeper and of a sudden they’re bathed in a warm orange glow. Brienne startles, looks away towards their Jaeger — _their_ Jaeger — but Jaime watches her still. Her expression loosens and he admires how the light softens her further, makes her look younger, more carefree.

“Her heart,” Brienne says, lips turning up in a faint smile.

Her eyes shine, and Jaime says, “Beautiful,” without thinking. His throat tightens, and Jaime cuts his gaze away towards Oathkeeper when Brienne turns her head to look at him again. He feels the weight of her baffled stare and clears his throat, saying, “There’s none alike.”

After a pause, Brienne says softly, “No. There isn’t.”

He waits a beat more, then leans back onto his hands, intending to watch the teams work. His fool heart flutters when Brienne hesitates, then leans back too. The side of her hand brushes against his, then lingers.

He knocks his thumb into hers and says, “So, you studied history at uni?”

Brienne doesn’t turn, but the corner of her mouth does lift. “You could chat for Westeros,” she mutters, her tone _fond_. Warmth pools in his stomach, but he shrugs against it. Affects an indifference he knows she’ll see through and says, “My dissertation was an examination of the knight’s code as set against the old oaths of the Kingsguard, contrasted to the Knights vow. Impossible standards, pulled in too many directions, all that. I’m curious on your thoughts.”

Her bottom lip vanishes into her mouth, and when it pops free again, she smiles. Just a little. She says, “You’ve already tried to bias me by calling them _impossible standards_.”

Jaime rolls his eyes. “Spare me, Starch,” he says tartly. “I’ve been in your head. I know how impossible it is to _bias_ _you_.”

She snorts, nudges his thumb with hers. Jaime can’t abide this and starts a battle for thumb dominance. He’s delighted that Brienne engages, her expression turning serious as she fights him. She growls once, and when Jaime gives an exaggerated growl back he thinks the squeak she makes might be a giggle but her free hand flies to cover her mouth. He eyes the flush on her cheeks, judges this one embarrassed, and instead of prodding at her, he merely redoubles his efforts to capture her thumb. 

They reach some truce: a knitting of thumb and forefingers, and Jaime suppresses a contented sigh as Brienne starts, first stumblingly and then with greater confidence, on the ancient knight’s code. He watches Oathkeeper, listens to Brienne, and builds his points against each of her extraordinarily incorrect opinions.


	5. we will deliver once we know where to fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne just wants to work through her misguided, incorrect feelings about Jaime by sparring with him, but the Kaiju have other plans. 
> 
>   
> _The clack is loud in Brienne’s ears: she brought her staff up in time, but only just. Jaime’s eyes sparkle at her, and Brienne huffs._
> 
>  _Jaime pushes away, takes several long steps back. Twirls his staff like a_ tosser _and says, “You’re off, Starch.” He smirks at her, Brienne scowls at him, then strikes._
> 
> _The flurried exchange clears her mind, sets her veins alight and grounds her, just like the first time. He’s fast, faster than anyone she’s ever sparred. It’s challenging, and Brienne relishes it. He grunts when she lands a hit, and she’s the one who smirks this time._
> 
> _Only — he doesn’t scowl in turn. His eyes soften, as do the corners of his mouth, and he says, “That’s more like it.”_
> 
> _Her chest heats, she feels it crawl up her throat, and before it reaches her cheeks, she snaps at him: “Again.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks as always to C, for reading through and feeding back, but also for calmly talking through key elements while I sent panicked messages littered with far too many emoji.
> 
> This chapter doesn't particularly come with content warnings beyond those in the tags: Pacific Rim-level violence. 
> 
> The final scene will lead into an increase in fic rating for the next chapter though, so if smut-adjacent stuff isn't your jam, consider this a head's up <3
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

The _clack_ is loud in Brienne’s ears: she brought her staff up in time, but only just. Jaime’s eyes sparkle at her, and Brienne huffs.

Jaime pushes away, takes several long steps back. Twirls his staff like a _tosser_ and says, “You’re off, Starch.” He smirks at her, Brienne scowls at him, then strikes.

The flurried exchange clears her mind, sets her veins alight and grounds her, just like the first time. He’s fast, faster than anyone she’s ever sparred. It’s challenging, and Brienne relishes it. He grunts when she lands a hit, and she’s the one who smirks this time.

Only — he doesn’t scowl in turn. His eyes soften, as do the corners of his mouth, and he says, “That’s more like it.”

Her chest heats, she feels it crawl up her throat, and before it reaches her cheeks, she snaps at him: “Again.”

“As bad a winner as she is a loser,” he mutters, but his smile comes back, cocky, and this. _This_ is why she’d asked him last night to join her on the mat this morning. Arrogant Jaime was easier for her to deal with than soft, reassuring, considerate Jaime. A Jaime who listens intently, who bares his soul willingly without the strange security of the drift. A Jaime who asks her opinions on things which interest her, and argues as fervently as she does, and annoys her, and, and, and _seems_ to _flirt_ with her — more baffling, seems to _like_ when she flirts back. That Jaime is utterly inexplicable. She must be misreading him, misunderstanding his meaning. That Jaime is dangerous because she lets her guard lower, and then her dreams are heated and she wakes feeling a tangle of frustration and longing and excitement. That Jaime is a challenge Brienne fears as much as her traitorous heart thrums for the thrill of it, it curls pleasantly in her stomach, through her limbs, demands she meet it.

But there is no ambiguity on the mat. _This_ Jaime —

This Jaime drops into a crouch like the first time, tries to unbalance her like the first time, as though she wouldn’t _learn_ from the first time.

Brienne lunges, braces one hand on his shoulder to leverage as she dodges around behind him, using her momentum to off-balance him, force him roughly down to splay beside her. She rests her staff across his collar bone, stares down at him and raises an eyebrow.

Jaime pants up at the ceiling for a beat, then cuts his gaze to her, narrowing his eyes. “That was good,” he says accusingly. Brienne feels the corners of her mouth twitch, tries to keep her expression neutral as she shrugs.

“Did you expect less?” she asks, pleased that her voice is even.

“No,” Jaime says. Then he moves — too quick for her to track clearly and Brienne is laid out. Jaime hovers across her, one hand pinning her staff-bearing arm to the mat, the other braced by her shoulder on the floor, holding the point of his staff to her temple. She feels the heat of his chest against hers, the soft puffs of his panting hits her throat. She resists squirming until he says, “I prefer you beneath me, though.”

Brienne freezes, her breath catching in her chest and there’s no fighting off the hot flush she feels painting up her face. Jaime quirks a frown at her before it seems his words catch up to him, and Brienne spares a moment through her embarrassment and idiotic _want_ to be curious at the twin pink splashes which appear high on his cheeks. He doesn’t colour through the entirety of their spar, but _this —?_

Jaime says, “I —”

The Kaiju alarm blares and Jaime is on his feet, reaching down a hand to help her up. Brienne grasps his arm, ignores how his skin feels under her palm, and lets go as soon as she’s standing.

“It’s too soon for another attack,” Jaime mutters, glancing at her.

The last had been three days ago. Typically there are months between attacks; to her knowledge, the shortest duration had been five weeks. Brienne nods, bites her lip. “This isn’t normal.”

Jaime hesitates, seems about to say something, then changes his mind. He nods towards the change rooms. “I’ll meet you in LOCCENT.”

“Yes,” she says, and gathers her things.

* * *

Brienne forces herself to focus. The kitchenette attached to LOCCENT is much smaller than the one in Eastwatch had been, but better appointed. She fills the kettle, sets it to boil. She retrieves two mugs after a quick search of the cupboards. There’s milk of various descriptions in the fridge, and in that strange way of accumulated drift knowledge, she remembers Jaime takes far too much semi-skimmed.

The ritual isn’t working. Her hands shake as she drops a teabag in each mug. Her stomach turns when the kettle switches off. She nearly pours water enough to overflow her mug because her mind wanders. She sets the kettle aside, braces her hands on the edge of the counter and breathes.

She’s stuck in the bloody Shatterdome as seven pilots, three Jaegers, go out to face two Category-4 Kaijus. She hasn’t _had_ to think about battle in years — she still thought about it often — and she hasn’t felt this way, impotent, _useless_ , in…

She breathes out a shaky, heavy breath. Really, her entire tenure in the North had been tinged with feelings of failure and frustration. She had poured herself into the work as much as she could, she respected deeply what it was the Starks did, but it was never work she was meant for. Her legs had been shaking when she disembarked from the chopper two days ago, but it had also been liberating. Brienne had tried to ignore it, the feeling that this is what she should be doing, but faced now with the prospect of doing nothing at all, the frustration and _demand_ coils in her belly, knots through her shoulders, her back.

The noise from LOCCENT starts to filter back in; hushed, through the door, but it’s there. The harried voices, loud and soft, the rush of feet. She had been keeping it together at first: Jaime had slipped back into his old role and kept her close, would whisper asides to explain things she might not know. But then he’d fallen into a task that took the whole of his concentration and Brienne had been left to stand there, watch people scurry and frown, looking rushed and harried, listen to the reports from the pilots and the updates from Podrick on the Kaiju ETA, and she couldn’t just do nothing, be pointless, any longer.

She wonders what her father would think: Selwyn had never been an idle man exactly but he was far more inclined to solutions of the tea-and-biscuit persuasion than any other. And Brienne now finds herself indulging in the same.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Brienne turns back to the mugs. She retrieves the teabags and disposes of them. Pours a dollop of milk into hers; turns Jaime’s into a milky abomination.

When she pushes back into LOCCENT, her anxiety ratchets. Jaime is standing tense, looking around the room. It’s strange to be able to read him so well. How he carries himself ramrod straight as he forces his expression neutral; others might not notice it. But she does. She walks to his side, and says, “Tea.”

He breathes out her name and his tone is so relieved Brienne feels a twist of guilt. Then his fingers drag across the back of her hand as she accepts his mug in so deliberate a way that she feels her heart flutter, her chest heat. An absurd response to a simple action in an urgent situation, and yet, when he says, “Thank you,” it almost seems a caress.

There’s a strain behind it though, and she tilts her head to look at him more closely. His expression flickers, his jaw ticks, and Brienne says, wry, “You thought I left.”

“No,” he says, too quickly. Brienne huffs and Jaime snaps, “Fine. Yes. Don’t go again without telling me.” She raises an eyebrow at this, and Jaime adds snidely, “ _Please_.”

The silence between them stretches, strains, and Brienne honestly doesn’t know how she feels in response to such a… such a _request_. It makes her bristle, in some ways, that he might insist anything of her, and equally it pleases her in ways it absolutely should not. She feels so frustrated by their being grounded, and that he might try to… to put boundaries around what is already a cage — but that isn’t right either. It might just be, she’s been alone now for so long. And she had been alone, before… Before Renly. And looking back, she thinks she was sort of alone even when she had a drift partner, but living in one another’s heads obscured it. And now, now there’s Jaime. Who trembles with vibrancy and makes her recognize the grey she’s inhabited, makes her think maybe she doesn’t have to, maybe there’s some light and colour left to her and this upending of her world is the last thing she needs and yet —

Yet somehow she also feels safe with him.

It doesn’t make sense. She can’t parse it. The drift always accelerates relationships between pilots, whatever shape that relationship might take. She _knows that_. But this feels like it goes beyond. And now he wants her to… to let him know her movements? She understands, of course, he means just for now; just in this emergency. But somehow it feels a bigger demand than that.

Absurdly, she thinks of the guest right of old Westeros. As though Jaime has entered her stronghold, eaten her bread, her salt, drank her wine, and has the run of the space. She wants to think it an outrageous comparison, but the drift… Had she not also entered _his_ stronghold? There was no exchange of food and drink, but rather of secrets and traumas and whatever else might get mixed into the mess of a drift, nevermind their dinner together last night, and surely that’s a more binding contract than even the most strongly held ritual.

She’s buffeted by the noise in LOCCENT, of murmurs and the hammering of buttons and the occasional shout, and it makes her tense, and that frustration of being _here_ and not _out there_ buzzes across her skin, and yet still she only stares at Jaime who stares back.

Podrick calls for Jaime and his glare turns truly cross, so she sighs out a frustrated breath. “I’ll say something next time,” she says, and he replies shortly, “Thanks.”

When he’s done with Podrick, Jaime takes a sip of his tea and looks at her wide eyed. “Brienne. This is perfect.”

She shrugs, feeling awkward, and says, “You like it too milky.” Jaime’s face flashes amusement, mischief, and he opens his mouth to respond when Arya’s voice comes over the comms, “Foxtrot maintaining position at the coastline. Confirming Immortal and Crimson approaching drop. Foxtrot Oscar awaiting further instruction.”

Foxtrot Oscar. Arya, sixteen at the time and, in Jaime’s word, _bolshy_ , had named the newest and most advanced Jaeger. The name stuck, though she hadn’t piloted it for another year and a half. Lyanna pilots Crimson Talon with Elia and Rhaegar, and a woman with a soothing voice called Missandei pilots the Essosi Jaeger, Immortal Flame, with her partner, Grey.

The Marshal leans forward, says into the comms mic, “Understood Foxtrot. Engage only as an absolute last resort. All Jaegers: these Category-Fours are the biggest we’ve ever seen, in both size and weight. Code named Zaldrīzes and King. Eyes peeled.”

“Confirmed,” comes Lyanna.

“Understood, Marshal,” Missandei says. Then, a moment later, “Immortal Flame has reached the target zone. Disengaging from transport.”

While Foxtrot had walked from the Shatterdome directly to its position, Immortal and Crimson were flown in on multiple helicopters to save time.

“Crimson Talon in target zone. Also disengaging.”

“Immortal Flame in position. Holding the miracle mile.”

“Crimson Talon in position. Holding the miracle mile.”

Brienne swallows thickly. Her last water-based battle had also been her first. It had been almost easy: a Category-2 Kaiju by the name of Vezhof. Once they had routed Vezhof out of its hiding place in the Trident, the fight had lasted two minutes. She and Renly had been the toast of the Northern Shatterdome. Almost six years ago. Beside her, Jaime glances at her hands, and she realizes she’s clenched them into fists. She forces them lose. He doesn’t say anything, but shifts his weight slightly so she can better feel the heat of him beside her. It doesn’t soothe her anxiety, and it makes her feel a bit embarrassed, but she also feels a little less alone in the moment. Renly, too, feels oddly close. It hurts.

Podrick says, “Kaiju arrival estimated sixty seconds.”

Then it’s Jaime who seems to need bolstering. He sets his mug aside, crosses his arms over his chest as the Marshal relays the message to the Jaeger teams. Brienne swallows, bumps her shoulder against his. “Are you always here?”

He nods. “The last three years, anyway. It’s…” He draws a deep breath. Podrick is counting down. “I trained Arya. I’ve worked with Elia, and with Missandei and Grey. I know their styles, their stats. They’re good. _Really_ good. It’s only —”

“You’d rather be out there,” she murmurs. She knows the feeling. Podrick is down to _10, 9, 8…_ Jaime glances at her. His smile is tight and small, but he nods. He says, “I want _us_ out there,” and Brienne can’t help but return his smile. It feels wobbly on her face.

“Zaldrīzes has engaged Talon,” Pod reports. “Damage to Talon’s midriff. Talon has fallen over. Talon back standing. Initiating Bloodlust Formation.”

“Bloodlust Formation,” Brienne asks softly. “All three?”

Jaime nods. “Unique to Crimson Talon. Three pilots, three arms with rotating blades.”

Brienne listens, tense, as Podrick reports Zaldrīzes sustains damage. Brienne glances to the view screen. The helicopters circling the fight are too far away for their cameras to pick up much detail, but she can see the strange, iridescent green blood of the Kaiju blurring with the huge splashes of their battle. Brienne takes a breath, hoping to ease the tightness in her chest, but —

“Talon: one arm compromised,” Pod says. A new hush settles over LOCCENT. Brienne forcibly unclenches her jaw. Podrick says, “Talon has thrown Zaldrīzes,” and Brienne draws another breath; Jaime’s fingers tap on his arm where he’s crossed them over his chest. “Immortal Flame now engaging. Zaldrīzes injured. Immortal — damage to cockpit. Zaldrīzes has knocked them over.”

Arya’s voice cuts in, “LOCCENT. Talon and Immortal aren’t doing so hot. We’re going in.”

“Stand down, Foxtrot,” the Marshal commands. “Do not engage unless absolutely necessary.”

There’s a pause into which Pod says, “Immortal on its feet. Talon approaching to support. Zaldrīzes engaging Talon.”

Arya says, “Understood.”

Only — Podrick, strained, “Zaldrīzes has incapacitated Talon. The… The cockpit has disconnected from body. Crimson Talon —”

Missandei’s voice interrupts, “Crimson Talon is down.”

“Crimson Talon is down,” Podrick confirms, voice shaking.

Brienne’s veins turn to ice. _Lyanna._ She glances at Jaime: his expression is thunderous. He drops his arms to his sides, and Brienne thinks it’s an accident, but takes solace anyway when his hand brushes hers.

“LOCCENT!” Arya shouts across the comms. “We’re moving in!”

Olenna curses under her breath. She turns to Pod, says, “Talon. Life signs?”

“Three,” Pod says. “But —”

“I know,” Olenna says. Relief is threadbare. Brienne forces herself to breathe; Jaime flexes his hands. They both know: evac can’t be sent in until the Kaiju are dead.

Podrick says, “Immortal Flame is moving into —”

Missandei’s voice interrupts, urgent, “Immortal Flame. We’ve been hit with some kind of acid. Our cockpit has been compromised. Requesting immediate backup.”

“Fucking hells — hold on, Immortal!” Arya says. “We’re coming!”

Brienne thinks of Catelyn. Of all the conversations they had which moved around the subject of the Jaeger program, never fully settling, the worried furrows in her brow when one of the other children mentioned Arya. The lines bracketing her mouth, growing ever more pronounced over the years. That Brienne is supposed to make sure Arya could go home.

She’s stuck in LOCCENT. Arya is still so young. She really shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be piloting a Jaeger. Cold and sick with fear and failure, Brienne wraps her arms around herself.

Podrick says, “Foxtrot Oscar approaching Immortal and Zaldrīzes. Immortal engaging Zaldrīzes despite compromise — Kaiju King has engaged. King is on Immortal. Immortal sustaining heavy damage. We just — We lost Immortal.”

The air leaves the room. Shock makes her light headed. The Marshal’s voice hoarse, asking, “Life signs?”

“Two,” Podrick croaks, clears his throat. “But Immortal is about to — Immortal has self destructed. Life signs vanished. But the connection was interrupted. It’s possible…”

Brienne breathes out heavily through her nose. She sees Jaime’s throat move, then he turns his head and whispers, “There’s a chance.”

“A chance,” Brienne agrees. It’s slim. Really, it’s almost not a chance at all.

Pod sounds shaky as he continues, “Foxtrot engaging Zaldrīzes. No damage: but Zaldrīzes, heavy injury. Zaldrīzes pushed back from city. Foxtrot engaging missiles.”

“Come on,” Jaime whispers. “Get the fucker, little she-wolf.”

Pod says, “Wait — what is — it’s some kind of —” Brienne turns to the screen in time to see pulses of green light flash across the camera feed, the camera dies. A beat later, they’re plunged into darkness.

Brienne blinks. A faint glow permeates the space: some kind of glow-in-the-dark paint highlighting key surfaces, splashed across the ceiling.

“What the fuck was that?”

Brienne is slower to turn towards the voice than is Jaime, but it’s a voice she recognizes despite never having met Tyrion face to face.

Jaime’s brother is standing on one of the chairs by a computer terminal, looking furious. He raises a hand to Jaime, flicks his eyes to Brienne, then refocuses on Podrick. Brienne had thought Tyrion was stuck in the infirmary, and it might be the strange glow, but to her eye he still looks unusually sickly as contrasted to Jaime’s memories. She feels rather than sees Jaime breathe out heavily, turn back to command, so Brienne does the same.

Pod answers, “Some kind of blast — an electromagnetic pulse? It’s fried all our electronics. I can’t reach Foxtrot, or — or anybody.”

“That is a weapon,” Tyrion says angrily. “They’re fucking _adapting_.”

“It’s going to take me two hours to re-route the axillary,” Podrick mutters anxiously. “All the circuits are — they’re fried. And all the Jaegers, they’re digital.”

“Not all of them,” Brienne says. She’s said it before even processing the thought. Oathkeeper could still go out; Oathkeeper wouldn’t be affected by an EMP. Oathkeeper… Oathkeeper could fight. She takes a shuddery breath just as Jaime sucks in a sharp one. Louder, her voice even, Brienne says, “Oathkeeper isn’t digital.”

Jaime says, “She’s right, Marshal.”

Olenna had heard her. She knows it by the way the Marshal’s grip on the table has turned her knuckles white. Jaime says forcefully, “Oathkeeper is analog.”

Brienne says, “Nuclear.”

There’s no other option: they all know it. The Marshal still hesitates for longer than she should and Brienne’s frustration rises bile in her throat. They’d be fine; they would _have to be fine_. There’s no other option. King’s Landing holds nearly five million people. If Zaldrīzes and King aren’t stopped here, Westeros has millions more.

“Go,” Olenna says.

* * *

The fastest suit up still takes too long. It feels an eternity before Jaime is putting on his helmet, Brienne stepping into place beside him. She says, “Jaime. About yesterday…”

The computerized voice says, “ _Initializing neural handshake_.”

“Come to your senses, Starch?”

Brienne’s lips twitch behind her visor, and Jaime feels a little calmer. She says, “I was about to ask you the same. Stormlands, every time.”

Jaime sighs dramatically. “How anyone can be so clever and yet so wrong is beyond me. It will _always_ be Dorne FC.”

Brienne says, “You’re such a —” But the computerized voice interrupts, “ _Neural interface ready. Initiating_.”

Jaime breathes deeply —

_She cartwheels under the hot sun as a cool breeze blows off the sea and Galladon laughs as she falls on her backside. She giggles_

_Dad’s hand is hot and sweaty in hers. She hates the black dress she’s been forced into, doesn’t think Mummy would want her like this to say good-bye_

_She’s sixteen and her heart breaks as the rose hits the ground, his heel grinding it as he walks away_

_Renly is so fierce as he says, “They’re shits,” and she slowly straightens her shoulders, the warm flutter in her chest a contrast to the steady cold ache_

_Tyrion shows him around the Shatterdome, the pleasant camaraderie is nothing like the apathetic terseness of the Service_

_She fucking loves the simulator: feels powerful, unstoppable. The thought of stepping foot in a Jaeger — she_ wants —

_Silences dog him everywhere he goes on base, no one meets his eye. He knows what they say behind his back_

_Jaime starts to pull away but she slips her fingers between his, keeps him there. His hand feels so strong and comforting, and she knows these feelings_ don’t make sense _, but she doesn’t,_ can’t _, let go. Instead, she wants him closer. Why? She —_

“ _Initialization complete_ ,” the computerized voice says. Jaime gasps a deep breath. Their connection cradles him, less strange than the first time. Brienne tells Oathkeeper she thinks it beautiful, and Jaime can’t help but agree, can’t help the wash of warmth her ritual gives him. Oathkeeper seems to purr in response, and he feels Brienne welcome it like a friend — her thoughts stray, _I know it’s not possible but_ —

“It’s responding, Brienne,” Jaime affirms quietly. Brienne’s gratitude for his agreement is profound; he’s almost embarrassed by it. He sets his jaw, begins the calibration. It’s more swift this time —

“Left hemisphere, calibrated. Right hemisphere, calibrated.”

Brienne is… calm. She had been calm, the first time, too. Until he’d mucked it up. But this calm is different than the last —

_Trust. Knowing._

And after the feelings come to him, there’s a little tinge of embarrassment, too. Jaime suppresses the impulse to tease, and instead lets himself be bare, just a bit. _Trust_ , he agrees. The second word he offers, more hesitant, _Admiration_. Her embarrassment blossoms, but so too does an earnestness Jaime finds he likes.

When first they drifted, Jaime had thought Brienne like the solid stone of the cliffs at the Rock. Today, there is still that solid grounding, but it’s like he sees further, feels more. Her mind is a mountain topped by evergreens and strong, tall oaks. There’s mystery, yes, and no easy paths. But also welcoming stillness to calm him, crisp air to clear his head, and all around him, to explore, is _beauty_ —

Brienne jerks away at that thought and Jaime reels for a beat, disoriented. He breathes deep, extends out to her. He has never been afraid of exploring; he likes when there’s more than meets the eye.

“Come back to me,” he murmurs, and, tentative, she does.

Jaime flicks the switch to the short-range communicator. “We’re ready,” he tells the transport team, and Oathkeeper lurches as the cables connecting it to the helicopters are pulled taut. Then they rise slowly out of the Shatterdome. Jaime thinks of the battle ahead: two Kaiju. He savagely ignores that they just took down two, maybe three, Jaegers piloted by the best. Brienne thinks briefly of Renly — _Let’s get this fucker_ — and Jaime thinks it’s a good line.

“It was,” she agrees softly.

He feels the first thrum of anticipation, Brienne echoes him, and the drift between them starts to surge with it. He loves a good fight; always has. Channelled into learning martial arts, into sparring.

 _We need a rematch_ , Brienne thinks, and Jaime grins. Her thoughts turn to what they might learn from the earlier fights; Jaime wonders at how seemingly easy it was for the Kaiju to take down the Jaegers.

A wisp, a strange overlay of his voice in Brienne’s memory and Tyrion’s in his own — _an invading force_ — then, from earlier, Tyrion’s voice duplicated, _That is a weapon — They’re fucking adapting_ —

“We’ve got to deal with the acid,” Jaime says. Brienne’s agreement hums through their connection, into his ear piece. She thinks they don’t know enough about King, and Jaime agrees.

They near the target zone. Foxtrot Oscar stands eerily still and dark. King stalks towards it. Brienne mirrors his shiver through the connection. She reaches out and flicks the switch to disengage from the choppers. They drop, the landing strange as Oathkeeper wobbles in the surf before hitting the sandy bottom. Jaime shifts a foot experimentally; the sand holds. King turns towards them.

The Kaiju _is_ enormous. It’s almost leonine in its shape, long, lithe, a mane around its head. The mane glows faintly —

_Is that —_

_The weapon. Let’s —_

_Yes._

King bounds unsteadily through the water, but its launch is true, and they press against the water, a slow motion dodge aside. It’s enough. They grab its mane and lean back. King’s momentum carries it through and they grip hard at the weapon, dig a heel in the sandy bottom of the bay, brace a foot against King’s side and _pull_ —

The weapon tears free in a flurry of glowing blood and they toss it aside. King roars, so loud it vibrates through Oathkeeper, and then it has its arms around them, spins them, throws them back towards King’s Landing —

_I always wanted to fly —_

_For the sake of the Seven, Jaime_.

They crash through an overpass, but Brienne digs Oathkeeper’s shoulder in and Jaime braces its legs until Brienne pulls their torso up. They’re in a crouch, facing back towards the harbour. Around them are hundreds of cargo containers; enormous cranes nearly their height.

King is hauling itself out of the water. Its tail whips back and forth, green blood painting glowing rivulets over its shoulders. It paws at the ground. Once, twice, then bounds to meet them.

It’s easy to slip into a dialogue. He’s never experienced anything like it. The weight of Oathkeeper grounds them as they fight: Brienne automatically takes control in moments when strength is needed over grace; Jaime dominates when they need speed. They set up for one another, almost a dance. Jaime’s blood sings, and he can feel Brienne’s thrilling, too. Together, they grab hold, together they reach to tear into the wound on King’s head —

King bucks violently, springs, topples them over then claws viciously at their back. They heave, manage to throw King off —

But —

Jaime thinks about the cargo containers and they’re grabbing two in each hand as they stand to meet King. Brienne offers a half second thought, then Oathkeeper’s arms swing — the timing as they use the cargo containers to crush King’s skull is _perfect_ as King leaps —

King stumbles, roars again, pounces on them. It sinks its teeth into their shoulder, claws tearing at their arms, pushing them back, back towards the bay —

“Plasma cannon!” Brienne shouts, and Jaime triggers the powering up sequence. They aim it under King’s left shoulder socket — Brienne, bright with vengeance — Jaime says, cold, “Empty the clip.”

It takes five shots before King’s arm is blasted away, its chest cavity scorched. It growls as it falls, lands motionless on the ground before them.

Triumph is swift, hot in his veins. Through their connection, it feels like Brienne glows with it. They start to walk past King when a shiver of doubt passes through Brienne. Jaime feels the echoes as it tightens her chest, closes her throat.

 _Renly_.

They had thought Shadow dead; had felt the triumph, like this, and then —

“Let’s check for a pulse,” Jaime suggests. The force of Brienne’s agreement crowds the drift, and they turn. It takes another four shots before King’s unresponsive corpse sets alight, and relief tumbles from Brienne before a flood of determination sweeps Jaime up as she turns her thoughts to Zaldrīzes, still somewhere in the city.

Jaime laughs, for want of a better outlet, at the swift currents of her battle moods. Can’t help but think her magnificent. Somehow, Brienne blushes in the drift, and Jaime laughs again, a strange, biting fondness this time. A fondness which blurs with his battle fever, and as though as one, they reach for one of the cargo ships to use as a bludgeon.

Jaime grins at Brienne and says, “Let’s go hunting.”

They follow the path of destruction through the city. Beside him, Brienne is grim. She keeps her eyes forward as Jaime takes it in. It isn’t the first time she’s seen this, but he’s only ever been in the aftermath once the ruins have been made safe. His favourite library is half collapsed; rare solace was borrowing corny murder mysteries or romances on his requisite leave periods. Brienne’s sympathy pulses gently across their connection.

There’s the terrible steak joint, _The Bloody Plate_ , in flames. An apartment building where Tyrion had lived while studying is missing its top six storeys. A bar he’d taken Addam once has a hole in the roof where something had fallen from a neighbouring skyscraper.

 _At least there are no bodies_ , comes Brienne’s thought. Immediately she feels sorry, but Jaime acknowledges it. He’s seen the photos from the first attacks, before adequate refuges were built. They’re still not _perfect_. He knows they acted essentially like butcheries during the attack on Rain House. But they saved the population of Braavos.

His next thought, more plea than promise, _They will do the same here_.

And Brienne, so certain, _Yes_. _And so will we_.

They round a corner, and Jaime’s stomach drops. Zaldrīzes has its face down into a hole in the ground which Jaime is certain was once a refuge. He reaches out, presses a button, and Oathkeeper’s fog horn sounds. It rattles the cockpit around them, and he hears a distant response in Brienne’s memories: ships off the coast of Tarth.

 _Take me there_ , Jaime thinks, and has only a moment to register Brienne’s surprise before Zaldrīzes turns to face them.

Together, they heft the ship like a bat and swing. Zaldrīzes takes four hits before its freakish prehensile tail-with-claws takes hold of the ship and throws it away. Jaime spares a thought for the buildings it demolishes before Zaldrīzes hits them square in the torso.

“Fuck —”

“We’re all right,” Brienne says as they tear up several blocks of road and crush dozens of cars.

“ _We_ might be,” Jaime says acerbic.

“Never mind the cars,” Brienne snaps, tension in her voice and across their connection. “Where’s Zaldrīzes?”

Jaime looks up in time to see the swish of its tail vanishing behind a building at the end of the street. “Let’s go,” he says.

They get to their feet — more slowly than he’d like, and here, the first downside to being a seven thousand ton robot. Brienne’s wry amusement tickles at his consciousness, despite the urgency. He rolls his eyes at her.

The financial district of King’s Landing is _all_ skyscrapers, many reaching tall above Oathkeeper, let alone a lizard monster which could crouch on all fours. “It’s still a bloody big beast, though,” Jaime grouches. “How long can it hide for?”

 _You’d be surprised,_ Brienne thinks, and memories of her third fight come to him. A Category-2 who spent ages under the water of the Trident, hiding.

“I didn’t realize they could fear,” he says distractedly, trying to peer around the sides of the buildings. Brienne mentally shrugs, wonders, _Fear or tactic?_

“Gods save us if they can formulate _tactics_.”

Her hum through the drift isn’t exactly reassuring, and Jaime thinks again on Zaldrīzes’s three limbs primed for fighting. Two arms, a prehensile tail. To match against the three arms of Crimson Talon. He shivers at the thought; Brienne tensing beside him.

“Tyrion said they were adapting,” he murmurs.

Brienne’s memories flash to their fight for King. “Did it seem King might be well matched against Foxtrot?”

Jaime opens his mouth to respond when Zaldrīzes crashes through Westeros Bank HQ. Its hand grips Oathkeeper’s head, obscures their sight through the visor, and smashes them through at least two buildings before Brienne shouts, “It’s tongue!”

They manage to pivot in time for the acid to shoot past them, drenching, then melting, the WBC broadcast centre.

Zaldrīzes changes its grip, opens its mouth again, and Jaime feels the whisper of Brienne’s thought before they thrust Oathkeeper’s left hand into Zaldrīzes’ mouth and grab its tongue. They’re about to brace, to pull —

“The tail, Brienne!”

Revulsion tinges Brienne’s battle fever as Zaldrīzes’ tail wraps around Oathkeeper’s right arm, Brienne keeping the snapping claws at the tip away from their head.

“The coolant,” she says urgently.

Holding Oathkeeper’s left hand around Zaldrīzes’s tongue, Jaime slams the button and coolant blows from Oathkeeper’s side to freeze Zaldrīzes’s tail. Brienne ruthlessly slams the tail against the nearest building, a bleak relish shared through the drift as it shatters. Brienne grabs one of the horns on Zaldrīzes’s head, tells Jaime she’s ready. Jaime grips Zaldrīzes’s tongue, wrenches hard.

It tears away more easily than King’s EMP weapon.

Zaldrīzes screams, scrambling back before some kind of rage seems to take it and it’s bounding at them. They hold, and Jaime spares a moment’s confusion when it scrambles up their chest — it grips their head in its forearms and grabs their torso with its hind.

“What the fuck —”

Its claws dig into Oathkeeper’s back and sides, and the connection to Oathkeeper isn’t meant to convey pain but Jaime swears he feels pinpricks near his spine, across his ribs as Oathkeeper flails.

Zaldrīzes pushes them hard into the ground, concrete cracking around them as the metals in Oathkeeper’s back rumbles and groans. Jaime feels a lick of nausea at the sound; Brienne beside him moans softly. Above them Zaldrīzes unfurls enormous wings they didn’t know it had and Jaime feels a burst of horror, hears Brienne’s gasp beside him —

“By the Seven,” she murmurs.

Zaldrīzes carries them up, up, off the ground, just high enough that Oathkeeper lurches before Zaldrīzes slams them into the top of a building, drags them through two more. It rattles him, Jaime gulps, tries to find footing which isn’t there, Oathkeeper’s limbs splayed, gravity tugging at them. Brienne scrambles and Oathkeeper wrenches, Zaldrīzes screeches, and there’s a moment of hope —

Its claws tighten on them, Oathkeeper judders and Zaldrīzes takes them higher.

“What is it _do_ —”

“I don’t know!”

The computerized voice cuts in, “ _Oxygen levels decreasing.”_

Brienne says, “Our plasma canons are empty.”

“Coolant’s gone.”

She leans forward, punches some code into the computer and Jaime feels her blanch through their connection. They might fire their chest engine, but that would render them —

“ _Altitude actuation off balance._ ”

“Wait. Wait, wait,” Jaime dives forward, punches through a quick series of windows and looks at Brienne. “They made a modification.”

Jaime can’t identify the burst of Brienne’s feelings which floods their connection, but it settles in his belly like belief. “After you,” she murmurs. Through the connection she is ferocious. Thinks, _Protect our people._

Jaime hits the initialization sequence and a satisfying _shling_ sounds from Oathkeeper’s left arm as the interlocking segments fly out. _Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud_. It rattles through the entire body as the sword solidifies. Jaime swallows; they both watch wonderingly through Oathkeeper’s visor.

Zaldrīzes notices above them, but before it can react, Jaime swings the sword in a long arc, slicing through its wing, through its neck, until Zaldrīzes falls away from them, two sides plummeting past.

Vindication is hot in his veins. It’s fierce, and it burns him, and he _relishes it_ , and then Brienne lets out a breath, engulfs Jaime in such strong emotion his throat tightens, his heart pounds, his eyes blur. He blinks away the damned tears, glances toward the sword to steady himself, calls it back, and —

Panic shatters all else. Brienne sees it the same time he does. They’re in free fall.

Static bursts over their ear pieces. The Marshal shouts, “Oathkeeper! You’re coming in too fast —”

“No shit, Thorny,” Jaime mutters and Brienne somehow has the wherewithal to send him some reproachful pulse through the drift.

“ _Fifty thousand feet to ground contact._ ”

A crackle, then, “The KL Football stadium is twelve miles north. If you aim for it —”

“We might manage a landing. Understood.”

Oathkeeper is glowing from the friction of their fall and Jaime’s stomach turns. _Not dead yet, sword master,_ Brienne thinks, and flicks switches. Oathkeeper’s chest engine fires, burns, uses the last of their fuel and they might, _might_ , be in the right position —

“Brace, Brienne!”

They flail into a semi-upright position, bend Oathkeeper’s knees, pin Oathkeeper’s arms close to its body, and spare a thought to the gods neither of them believe in and —

The impact rattles through Oathkeeper, vibrates through Jaime until he near aches with it, the sound deafening him.

He shudders, then opens his eyes. There’s nothing but dust through the visor, but then Brienne is reaching out to him through the drift, worry clear, and Jaime reaches back, her relief a cascade that carries him and Jaime’s laughing as Brienne murmurs to Thorny that they’re all right.

* * *

They have to wait for the dust to clear, and with waiting comes renewed heartache. But Thorny updates them: Arya and Hunt had been retrieved, Foxtrot Oscar was, for the most part, undamaged. Then, the near unimaginable: they’d heard from Grey. And he had not just Missandei, but Rhaegar, Elia and Lyanna, too…

The question of _how_ is met with a cackle from Olenna that’s as near to hysterical as Jaime has ever heard her. She says, “Grey will be briefing the entire base on that one. I tell you, lad, I’ve lived a long life and never have I see the likes of the dedication that man has for Missandei.”

Jaime breathes out, Brienne slumps beside him. _They're alive,_ is a shared thought drenched in grateful disbelief and, and then — then some dam breaks. Triumph, relief, unadulterated _admiration_ floods between them. The torrent is breathtaking, and Jaime revels in the total mess of it all, loses himself in it, in the parts so captivatingly, nakedly _Brienne_ , and he forgets for a moment to _think_ and then his lust slips liquid into the mix, swirling unmistakable through the rest.

Jaime swallows. Hears Brienne gasp when she clocks it; her mind go still in shock. He doesn’t fight it, doesn’t linger — has _learned —_ but he does try to convey some apology.

Until… Until he becomes aware, acutely, that the attraction isn’t his alone.

“Brienne…?” he murmurs, uncertain, voice rough.

She whimpers out loud, it thrums through their connection. Jaime thinks, _I like your voice too,_ and desire surges until he’s nearly panting from it. It’s — it’s a lot, and it’s incredible, and it flares hot and fast and _fuck_ —

Brienne’s doubts bubble — _because of the battle…? Anyone…? —_ he growls, feels as soon as she registers the depth of his affront. He doesn’t blame Brienne for her doubts in general; could _never_. But to doubt him, here, when he’s laid bare…

Perhaps he shouldn’t see it as such, maybe _this_ response has roots in their victory, his battle fever, but it becomes a challenge he feels in his gut. When they… _if_ they… he grits his teeth: _if ever I am lucky enough to be invited to bed with Brienne, I will do whatever it fucking takes to ensure she knows exactly how much_ I want her _._

He’s been almost embarrassed the last few days by how very often he has thought about fucking her since she loomed over him in their spar; by how frequently his thoughts stray to fantasies of all the ways he might make her come undone before they’re done with one another.

Brienne stutters, his name echoes from her through their connection and of a sudden the full strength of Brienne’s attraction is a deluge — images too quick for him to fully grasp, his own imaginings and Brienne’s blur, sounds he’ll never unhear though he’s not yet heard them, sweat-slicked and trembling memories flow between them. Her urges _, wants_ , invite his, sometimes _reflect_ his, and — _Gods_ , _if this goes on much longer I might come in my suit_ , Brienne agrees, immediately remembers the last time she came, her hand between her thighs, back arching, and Jaime thinks, _That doesn’t_ help, _Brienne_ —

Podrick breaks in, urgent, “Oathkeeper? Are you all right? Your heart rates have jumped, both of you.”

The interruption from _Podrick_ — sincere, sturdy Podrick — is enough to cool Jaime, mostly. Pod is someone Jaime wants not at all associated with his filthiest thoughts of Brienne. Embarrassment eddies from Brienne at being caught and — a touch _more_ arousal? Interesting. Something for later — _Later_ , Brienne asserts, mortified, through the connection.

Jaime clears his throat, flicks open the communications. “All fine,” he says to Pod, flashes a smirk at Brienne as he continues, “We were just thinking about the sword.”

Brienne makes a strangled sound beside him, hurls a litany of very innovative cursing thoughts his way, but Pod says, “Oh.” Then, hushed, enthusiastic, “I shouldn’t say this, but that was _wicked_.”

Jaime chuckles, thinks a series of generically smutty thoughts to goad Brienne as he agrees cheerfully, “Wicked is the perfect word, Pod.”

Brienne fleetingly imagines gagging him. Jaime glances at her, shrugs, thinks he might not mind some light BDSM, and Brienne chokes, lurches forward to flick the comms switch and nearly hollers, “When will evac get here?”

A little breathless, a little delirious, Jaime laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fistbump for the 'everybody lives!' moment in the chapter goes to [this Pacific Rim comic](https://pocketaimee.com/post/58790959258/this-is-what-happened-after-the-end-of-the-movie) of yore by Pocket Aimee. Although Grey Worm's solution is a little less sheer-bloody-mindedness and significantly more creative-preparedness. I just didn't want Missandei, Grey Worm, Elia or Lyanna to die y'all.


	6. we are falling...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne and Jaime relieve some tension after their successes in the Jaeger fight, and learn of some changes to the main mission.
> 
>   
> _“Usually I’d ask to kiss you,” he says, voice rough and loud in the quiet of her quarters. He smells of the harsh soap of the Shatterdome, and despite his shower, scents linger of the neoprene of their suits, the oil they use on the gears in the cockpit. She had never thought those scents intoxicating before, but with Jaime… He’s watching her mouth, that simmering lust flares into wildfire. She whimpers, Jaime leans forward with a sharp breath, seems to catch himself, goes still and says roughly, “But I’m pretty sure —”_
> 
>  _“You’re right,” she gasps, and with a growl his mouth is on hers. Brienne moans in relief — finally,_ finally _— and tugs him closer, licking at his lips until he opens to her, welcomes her with a groan she feels in her gut._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ho-hum. So this is slightly late, in that it is technically Wednesday, but I've not slept so I'm calling it Tuesday! A clarification: for no real rational reason, chapter 6 is split into two! This is representing a decisive failure to kill my darlings, and I didn't want to interrupt the flow of events in this chapter as contrasted with the next. I also (inexplicably) do not want chapters longer than the ~7k of last (which is absurd because I love reading long chapters?! idk). So the overall chapter count has gone up, even if in my head these two parts are both chapter 6.
> 
> Chapter 6-1 'we are breathing...'  
> Chapter 6-2 '... and letting go'
> 
>   
> Many thanks to C as always for both giving this a read thru, and for once again dealing calmly and encouragingly with my stress messages :-*
> 
> Also, please check out [this incredible graphic](https://ronordmann.tumblr.com/post/190171557401/when-giant-monsters-emerge-from-the-sea-and-start) @ronordmann made for this fic, now also embedded in chapter 1!
> 
> Content warning for trauma-related flashbacks, and please also note the increase in rating!! If smut's not your jam, the last two sections of this part and most of part 2 are smut-free. Some recollections/reflections, but nothing graphic. <3
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's reading, commenting and kudosing, you make my day! I hope you enjoy this beast of a chapter <3

Brienne is impatient through the requisite decontamination procedure. The short walk to the change rooms is lined with base personnel, and Brienne does her best to hold herself — if not casually then at least not awkwardly. It’s difficult. What she wants is to be alone with Jaime in her quarters. What she manages is to accept the cheers and the whups of thanks with slow mounting mortification, feeling flustered under the attention, until Jaime turns, walks backwards holding her gaze, looking rumpled and pleased and still managing to convey some simmering heat with just a slow blink and the slight tip of his chin. It eases something in her chest, tightens something in her abdomen, and it’s a relief when someone ushers everyone away from the change rooms to give them space and privacy.

They’re silent as they approach, and Brienne is aware of Jaime’s every inhale, every swing of his arms, each flick of his eyes towards her. There’s a tense moment when Brienne is certain Jaime is going to kiss her, right there in the middle of the hall where anyone still lingering might see, and she panics and hopes in equal measure, but instead he just growls, “Hurry, Starch,” and disappears through the doors of one of the changing rooms. The rooms are private, lockable, and for one mad moment as his growl trembles through her, Brienne thinks about knocking and following him inside.

She doesn’t. She rushes through her shower, her change, and makes her way quickly to Olenna’s offices, begrudging the mandatory debriefs in a way she never has previously.

There’s no one there when she arrives, and Brienne just manages to resist the urge to prowl the room, settling instead in one of the chairs before Olenna’s desk. Footsteps sound behind her and she turns, a little embarrassed at how eager she is, but Jaime smiles, her heart swoops, her stomach flips, and she nearly drops the protein bar he tosses her way. Brienne has a moment’s confusion before she catches his meaning and flushes hot. Jaime’s respondent grin is wicked, grows only more so when he leans close as he sits, murmurs, “I’ve got two more each,” the puff of his breath tickling her ear, teasing damp down her neck as he offers her a bottle of water. “This one has electrolytes.”

His eyes sparkle at her when she stutters slightly, and Brienne can’t reason how someone might be so irritating and irresistible all at once.

She shifts in her seat, feels the heat of Jaime’s eyes on her legs as her thighs slide together, and _Gods_ but they need to _go_. She hastily unscrews the top from the bottle of water, and takes an enormous gulp. Beside her, Jaime snorts and her aggravation flares, but the crinkle of a protein bar wrapper makes her flush all over again.

By the time Olenna arrives, Brienne is on her second bottle of water and nearly done her own bar. Olenna looks them over quickly, and Brienne catches the flash of a sly smile before she smooths her face into something more professional. Olenna congratulates them, tells them she’s needed back in the infirmary and that a proper debrief will be scheduled for tomorrow. She then dismisses them, urges them to rest, and Brienne doesn’t miss the particular emphasis she puts on the word _rest_. Brienne glances to Jaime who looks back at her mildly.

Without a word, Jaime follows Brienne to her quarters. The door shuts and she finds herself against the wall, Jaime crowded up to her. His hands bracket her, but he isn’t touching her now, not yet. She feels the heat of him, bites her lip against the urge to press against him. There’s always the lingering need to touch after a drift. Even with Renly, she would sit huddled with him for a couple of hours after. But this — _this_ is much, much more than that. There’s no ambiguity: those last minutes in the drift… Her heart is pounding and her breathing is shallow and they’re not even touching yet. She bites back a whimper: she has _never_ felt this way; it sings through her, and she knows it’s vibrating through Jaime, too. She just, she _likes_ him. Very much. Her chest tightens, almost hurts, with the knowledge. _Gods_ , she knows the heart of him now: beautiful, and aching, and so, so _caring_. His urgency wanting to look after people; a little desperation to be looked after in turn. There’s a similarity in some ways, Brienne knows, in her own heart, that she never dares look at. But.

Jaime has.

Brienne clenches her fists at her sides to keep from grabbing him to her.

“Usually I’d ask to kiss you,” he says, voice rough and loud in the quiet of her quarters. He smells of the harsh soap of the Shatterdome, and despite his shower, scents linger of the neoprene of their suits, the oil they use on the gears in the cockpit. She had never thought those scents intoxicating before, but with Jaime… He’s watching her mouth, that simmering lust flares into wildfire. She whimpers, Jaime leans forward with a sharp breath, seems to catch himself, goes still and says roughly, “But I’m pretty sure —”

“You’re right,” she gasps, and with a growl his mouth is on hers. Brienne moans in relief — finally, _finally_ — and tugs him closer, licking at his lips until he opens to her, welcomes her with a groan she feels in her gut.

Brienne knows Jaime as a fighter; knows what it is to have his body move with hers as in their spar, the lithe shape of his skills in the midst of battle, sharing control of a seven thousand ton Jaeger. Together, they’d been like two sides of the same blade. She very much wants to know Jaime in this, as a — as a lover. Not from flashes of memory, but grounded, in her body. It’s a startling thought: has slept with men before and it’s been — _fine_. But by the Seven. It’s frightening and exciting and she wants to move _her_ body against his: to learn exactly how he feels under her too-large hands, how he tastes beneath her too-broad mouth, how he moves between her too-thick thighs —

Urgently, she tangles her fingers in his hair, soft and a little damp from the shower. When she accidentally yanks he grunts and surges against her. His chest rubs against hers, little charges of pleasure lighting with every gasp. She breaks away, tips her head back to gulp in air. Jaime drops his head to her shoulder with a low huff, he mumbles, “I know the feeling,” into her skin.

“Jaime,” she breathes. He nips and licks from her shoulder, a slow, liquid slide up her neck to behind her ear, and she slips one hand free of his hair to stroke down his shoulder, his bicep, to curl around the bend of his elbow. She clutches at him when he finds some sensitive spot and lingers there, mouthing at her as she shivers. She tugs and he pulls back willingly, eyes bright and lips swollen, and Brienne aches because she has never seen anything so lovely or impossible or inexplicably dear.

Jaime’s eyes crinkle at her, his mouth curves, and Brienne cups his face in her hands. His stubble tickles under her palms as she leans forward, presses her lips to the precious wrinkles at the sides of his eyes, and she relishes his soft sigh.

He’s still not touching her though, his hands remain braced either side of her against the wall. Brienne wants Jaime to _touch her_.

She remembers his deliberate thought in the drift, _If ever I am lucky enough to be invited to bed with Brienne…_

“Jaime,” she whispers. She bites her lip when his eyes focus, bright and hungry, on hers. “Come to bed with me.”

“You’re sure?” he asks, his voice a low husk. Brienne can’t speak, answers by pressing her mouth to his once more.

Jaime’s hands find her shoulders and he pulls her back from the wall. Her quarters are not large, suitable for a single occupant in a war and the bed is close. She hasn’t tried to walk and kiss before, Jaime’s hands have found hers, holding her fingers lightly in his as he guides them back, and Brienne finds she likes the awkward stumbles and huffs of shared laughter, the way his smiling mouth feels against hers.

His legs hit her bed and abruptly he breaks the kiss to sit down. His face tips to look at her, his fingers still loose around hers. His cheeks are enticingly flushed in a way she hasn’t seen on Jaime, his eyes dark and shining, and Brienne bends quickly to kiss him again, flush with affection.

Jaime wraps his arms across her shoulders, and a whisper from their spar, from her drift knowledge, has Brienne stiffening half a second before he tosses her down beside him. Jaime follows, straddling her thighs, curling over her to kiss her deeply, to break away abruptly, leaving her slightly reeling, to press open mouthed kisses across her clavicle. She bites her lip to keep from making a noise, until, “Gods, _Jaime_ ,” when his hands slip up, under her jumper, under her tank top, his hands warm on her skin. She hasn’t been touched in so long, and never so well: insistent but gentle. Exploring her to learn, not to take. She remembers from the drift the intensity of his desire to do exactly this, whimpers when he mumbles into the hollow of her throat. It’s somehow so quintessentially Jaime, a gift she doesn’t know what she’s done to deserve, and her heart fills even as her body responds. Her muscles flex and flutter under his hands and Jaime rises to look down on her.

“Let’s off with this,” he murmurs, rucking up her jumper, flicking at the hem of her top, and Brienne’s flush is swift. His smirk grows, his eyebrow raises, and Brienne rolls her eyes at the challenge. Still, she levers herself up, likes Jaime’s weight across her lap as he eases back to give her space. He says, “Shall I —”

“No,” she interrupts. She rids herself first of her jumper, but Jaime is impatient as she battles to free her hand from the sleeve. Brienne doesn’t push away his hands as he reaches for her tank top. Raises her arms when he tugs it up, over her head and tosses it away. She’s still in her sports bra, but swallows down a sudden rush of nerves as he takes her in, biting her lip as he stares. She can’t think if she’s ever fucked anyone with the lights on, her few previous encounters always harried and as brief as possible.

“Fuck me, Brienne,” Jaime whispers, then flicks his eyes to hers with a smirk. “I suppose we’ll get to that part.”

“ _Jaime_ —”

He shushes her, drops his head to watch as he drags his fingers across her abdomen again. Brienne breathes deeply, watching as Jaime’s lips part. He says, “You’re so strong.” She suppresses a twinge of embarrassment, focuses on her muscles ticking under his fingers, sending fizzles of desire spiralling through her, and he tips his head up again, smirks. “I could feel that before. Wanted to see. You are —” but she doesn’t want to hear, so falls back, reaching up for his head to pull him back down. Her kiss is hungry, and he meets her. His hands haven’t stopped: he’s careful, mindful of the aches that come from Jaeger battle. He strokes lightly, tracing across her belly, dipping under the band of her trousers to pluck at her underwear, then skating up her sides. She jolts, air catching in her lungs when Jaime worries his thumb under the band of her sports bra, drags under the slight curve of one of her breasts. He goes still, breaks their kiss and hovers, looking down at her intently.

“Brienne,” he says, voice so rough and face so serious, “Do you want —”

“I want this,” she interrupts, reaching down and scrabbling for the edge of his jumper. He pulls his hands away to sit up, helping her. With his jumper gone, he waits above her, his weight warm and comforting across her hips, as Brienne looks. She wants to see and to touch all of him, panting and golden and _real_ : the dusting of hair teasing down his chest, his stomach, disappearing under the waist of his trousers, his half hard cock pressing against the material… Her mouth goes dry and she forces herself to look away, following back up the plains of his chest, the cords of his shoulders, his strong neck… When finally she finds his face, he’s bright with self-satisfaction and Brienne frowns automatically. Jaime laughs though, catches her hand up to kiss her palm before Brienne plucks it back.

She traces her fingers along the lines of him, careful to miss the bruises, angry smudges across his tan skin. Most she recognizes: slightly different positions, sizes, but much the same as her own. The marks of battle. The rough shakes and swings of being joined to an enormous robot being hit by enormous monsters. Brienne had never minded; it made her feel stronger the connection to Oathkeeper. But seeing Jaime littered with them too she feels some unanticipated sweep of protectiveness.

She flips them. Jaime offers a tut of amusement, but when Brienne glances at him, he doesn’t look surprised. No, he looks — she hisses out a low breath. He looks _pleased_.

He holds her hips, fingers pressing some pattern into the top of her arse as they change their position. She straddles him now, her thighs falling either side of his waist, his knees rising to cradle her. When Brienne accidentally grinds against his cock where it tents his trousers, they both groan. He lifts to one elbow, reaches for her, but Brienne pushes him back. “Just — let me?” she whispers.

Some expression crosses his face that she can’t read but it pierces her. She leans down, presses soft kisses to his jaw, then tracks down. There are twin bruises on his shoulders where the Jaeger struts connect to their suits; she has her own. He inhales sharply when she kisses the first, and she murmurs an apology, gentling on the second. Brienne lingers at his collarbone. She knows, had seen, that Jaime likes being marked, being claimed. It’s not something she’s done before, not deliberately, never caring to pour too much of herself into the sex she had, chasing something which never satisfied. But with Jaime… The way he touches, looks at her... She blows out slowly, watches his skin raise, a spread of goosebumps she caused.

The rare time she let herself indulge, in the dark with her hands, she had imagined fucking a man who liked her body and her heart and wanted her. Just — just her. Exactly as she is. And in the drift… awareness tingles through her. Jaime’s imaginings had never once changed her body, or softened her features. She had seen, or felt, the fondness around even the memories he had of her scowling at him. He had made his want for her plain.

He shifts beneath her, she can sense his mounting impatience, the way he’s trying to rein it in for her, for now, and her heart fills. She smiles slightly and hears Jaime’s quiet grumble, can imagine the demanding question he’ll ask, and before he does, she ducks her head, sets about adding a mark of her own. The breath stutters out of him, a low moan of her name, and Brienne hums. So it goes, down his chest. Featherlight kisses to each bruise. Careful suckles that raise red under her ministrations, soothed with her tongue and collected in her belly by the way Jaime lets out a heavy sigh each time. One of his hands rises to her head, his fingers tangling in her hair, his thumb brushing goosebumps across the top of her neck. His other trails gentle lines up and down her arm, making her shiver, making her _want_.

She finds a mark she can’t place, glances up at him. His expression is exquisite: something she has never seen before, couldn’t have ever imagined. His lips are parted, pupils are blown out, intense on her, his face loose and wondering. He licks his lips, and she forgets what she means to ask, her heartbeat suddenly loud in her ears, pulsing a demand between her thighs.

“Brienne,” he says questioningly, and she shakes herself.

“What’s this one?” she asks, rests her palm over the mottled black-blue.

Seeming reluctant, he drags his eyes from her face to glance at where she indicates. He winces, and says apologetically, “Hunt.”

Before Brienne can react, he sits up, pushing her up, too. “Your turn,” he growls, leaning against her to find the clasp of her bra.

Brienne stutters at the heat of his stomach against hers, sighs as he undoes her bra. Jaime presses his mouth against the juncture where her neck meets her shoulder, murmurs, “Is this okay?” and when Brienne nods, he pulls away to help her. The cool rushing between them makes her shiver, she distracts herself watching the goosebumps across his chest as she pulls first one, then the other of her arms free of the straps, letting the bra fall over the side of the bed.

She has barely a moment to feel nervous before she yelps, Jaime wrestling her back until she’s flat on the bed again. She bucks, he undulates in turn, offering some indescribable noise like a mix of a laugh and a groan, and Brienne momentarily loses sense. Then his mouth is hot, wet, around her nipple and she arches, groaning loudly. He chuckles, the puff of air raising the skin he’s wetted before he’s tonguing at her again. She clutches at his back, at his arse, and Jaime grinds into her, Brienne meeting him, gasping. “Jaime, _Jaime_ —” He only rumbles something into her breast she doesn’t hear but which makes her body catch fire. It isn’t — it’s too much, and it’s not nearly enough, the fabric between them a barrier frustrating her, his tongue teasing her, and when she can take no more, she shoves his head away, reaching desperately for the button on his trousers.

He stops her, reaches into his pocket and pulls out a string of condoms. It’s absurd, she’s seen condoms before, but still Brienne flushes and he grins, kisses her hard and quick. Then his hands are on the ties of her sweats, and she’s working the clasp of his, and they twist and arch and huff breathy laughs, awkwardly getting rid of first her sweats, then his trousers, her underpants and his boxer briefs to follow. Brienne inhales sharply, sees his cock only briefly before he shifts, pressing into her hip as he hovers above her. Jaime finds the crease of her thigh, traces it slide his fingers between her folds. She tries to control her breathing, meeting his eyes as he watches her intently. He licks his lips and Brienne’s sigh turns into a low groan as he strokes her, once, twice, then slips his hand free when she shudders.

He sits back, rips a condom free, hesitates, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features before he holds it out to her. “Help me put it on?” His tone is low, rough and seductive. But she hears the yearning beneath, his eyes vulnerable watching her, and in that moment she would give him anything.

Brienne swallows thickly, clears her throat. “I’ve… I’ve never done. That before…”

“That’s okay,” he says, voice so deep it rumbles across her skin. “I’ll help.”

It’s almost frighteningly intimate, Jaime’s hands guiding hers, the way his head tips back when she grips his cock — hot and silken flesh over the hard length of him, and Gods, _Gods_ , she should have touched him sooner, wants to touch him so much more but Jaime urges her on, offers a guttural groan as he watches her roll the latex over him.

Jaime kisses her fiercely, following her when Brienne lays back. Her legs fall open as Jaime lays across her, and all at once, Brienne wants him beneath her instead, puts her hand on his shoulder and Jaime stops.

“Can I — I want, to, to…”

“Brienne?” he asks gently, and she nearly combusts.

She whispers, “Can I top you?”

His breath leaves him all at once, and then he’s kissing her, hard, pushing her into the mattress beneath them before breaking away abruptly, growling, “Absolutely,” and he rolls back, pulling her with him. He’s beautiful beneath her: colour high in his cheeks, his chest rising and falling fast, his cock hard against the juncture of her thighs. Brienne bites her lip, and Jaime groans as she lifts and shuffles forward. His fingers tangle with hers as she positions him before trailing up to grip hard on the tops of her thighs as she lowers herself, gasping, until he’s buried deep inside.

Brienne starts to move. It’s… It’s good. Gods, but it feels good. She braces her hands against his chest, rolling her hips, his hands hard at her waist as he meets her.

They move together, faster, start to press at one another, to tease each other, almost wrestling as they fuck, and Brienne starts laughing because it’s absurd, and it’s _fun_ , and it _feels_ _incredible_ , and Jaime laughs with her, and when her breath starts to hitch, he gasps, “ _There it is_ —“ and seeks to touch where they’re joined, to massage at her clit, and she hears herself plead to the Seven as it all fills her, the pleasure and the laughter, and _Jaime_ — contracting to a golden pulsating point and she’s keening, desperate, Jaime’s voice a caress, “Come for me — _Brienne —_ ” His thrusts frenetic meeting hers and _Gods_ , he _begs_ — “ _Come_ — _!_ ”

She does, shouts his name as she shatters, starbursts of pleasure as she trembles and arches above him. Through the haze, she drops her head and meets his eyes, gasps as his desperate expression crumples into release with a loud groan of the first part of her name, and she thinks deliriously that he is wonderful, jerking between her thighs.

* * *

Jaime is uncharacteristically quiet in the after, and Brienne starts to worry. He had kissed her, slow and deep, before slipping from the bed to dispose of the condom, wipe himself down. He brought her a damp towel, such a small gesture which had nonetheless made her eyes prickle — _foolish_ — but Jaime had only bent to kiss her cheek, taking the towel from her when she was done and dropping it on the floor. They’re tangled now, facing one another on their sides, sweat cooling. Jaime watches his hand, tracing up her arm, and Brienne’s other hand is pinned under his head, though she can’t help curling her fingers into his sweat-damp hair, massaging his scalp. Still, the longer the quiet lasts, the longer he stares, the more anxious she becomes, until finally she decides to say something and Jaime says, “How long did it take you to heal?”

Her breath leaves her in a long hiss. Of course, his fingers are tracing up the scarring on her arm. His eyes flick to hers, and he smiles sadly at her, then brushes a feather-light touch to the scar on her cheek. Brienne closes her eyes, presses her face into her pillow and tries to pull away. She hasn’t ever spoken about this, and it’s — to ask her _here_ after, after —

“Stop,” Jaime says. The sheets rustle and then his forehead touches hers, his hand gripping her elbow, the other resting lightly at her throat. Brienne opens her eyes, and Jaime meets her gaze. He’s open to her, and she shouldn’t feel so defensive after they’ve drifted, after they’ve fucked, but still the way he seems concerned, and caring, and sincere, is somehow worse than if he were looking to mock her, or was disgusted by her. It leaves her staggered, and vulnerable.

He waits for her, and when she forces herself to relax, Jaime bumps his nose against hers. She aches from the sweetness of it, and focuses on his question. She tells him, haltingly, about the months after Eastwatch. Somehow it moves away from the physical side of things to confessions about dark days where she could only just rouse herself to work, only just force her way blithely through conversations with Catelyn and others, conversations she hadn’t remembered later.

She tells him of the nightmares — a stuttered, pleading warning that if he stays the night, she will likely disturb him — he kisses her then. A sweet peck to her lips which turns lingering. His hand slips up to cup her cheek, and Brienne grasps at his side, and it doesn’t become anything more than acceptance and comfort conveyed through touch, but inexplicably Brienne burns. It ignites a longing that savages her heart, and she eases back.

She sees his furrowed look of concern, clumsily turns the conversation to him. The expression he flashes shows he knows she’s diverting, but he doesn’t challenge her, simply answers. Tells her more of what it was like in the Service after his trial. How lonely, and isolating. No one dared mock him to his face, but he had known what they said regardless. He had missed his siblings desperately, felt stuck, hopeless. It was a weekend visit to Tyrion which led him to try for the program; heartsick, and needy.

“Thorny saved me, really.”

He’s said something like that before, and she still thinks he saved himself. It isn’t what he wants to hear though. Brienne says quietly, “I think I saw…”

His smile is perhaps a little embarrassed, certainly rueful, and this time, Brienne kisses him.

* * *

The nightmare blurs old traumas and new fears. Some part of her mind knows it isn’t right, but as Shadow’s claws reach into the cockpit, Renly becomes Jaime and she lunges, trying to get to him, but it's futile, she's tangled in the struts and the connections, and he stares at her in horror when she shouts for him, desperate, as he’s snatched away. Her arm spasms, and she cries, free now from Oathkeeper’s struts and falling somehow into Jaime’s arms. She clings to him, agonized and relieved, but he drops her, disappearing before her eyes. Oathkeeper sways and she’s tossed aside, metal screeching as it falls. She startles awake, Renly’s screams in her ears. She sits up, gasping, trying desperately to catch her breath.

Jaime rises slowly, a hand loose on her thigh, his arms then going around her waist. Brienne tenses, expects to feel smothered, but he’s steady, not demanding. She sucks in breath after breath and when finally the air starts to fill her lungs, Brienne leans into him gingerly. The tightening of his arms around her middle releases something in her chest. She draws in a deeper, slower breath, and Jaime rubs his cheek against her shoulder, mumbles something she doesn’t catch. The sound of his voice, rough with sleep, doesn’t banish the remnants of the nightmare, but it does ease her racing heart. She twists her head to look at him. He meets her gaze across her shoulder, watches her, calm and accepting, and... For so long, the most vivid thing in her life had been her nightmares. But looking at Jaime, comfort washes over her. It’s a trick, she knows, memories from earlier blending with the now because even in the dim light of her quarters, Jaime is vibrant. He’s golden, rumpled, from sleep and from fucking, and she remembers him red and radiant: his face alight, eyes so bright. The memories almost hurt to think on, but she keeps them close, folds them into her heart. His eyes are soft now, patient and understanding, and she uses them as a tether, guiding her back.

When her breathing is normal, Jaime coaxes her to lie back down, starts to curl around her but it isn’t right, she doesn’t — can’t be _held_ , and Brienne stops him. Her voice breaks on her apology and he watches her for a beat, then whispers, “Okay. It’s okay,” and rolls away. Brienne blinks, panic threatening to grab her by the throat again, but he shuffles back into her. “Hold me, Brienne,” he says. Relief floods her, confusing her, but as she wraps her arm around him, Jaime wriggling his ankle between hers, Brienne sighs out through her mouth. She watches his hair ruffle, tightens her hold, the utterly inexplicable relief she feels intensifying to the point of pain when Jaime presses back more deeply into her hold. His skin is a little cool where it meets hers, a contrast to his warm belly under her palm. The rise and fall of his chest is so soothing and she pulls him closer, pressing her cheek against his back, listening to the steady, strong beat of his heart.

When she cries, Jaime doesn’t say anything. He grips tight her hand where it presses against his stomach.

Eventually, miraculously, she falls back to sleep.


	7. ... but not alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne and Jaime relieve some tension after their successes in the Jaeger fight, and learn of some changes to the main mission.
> 
>   
> _Jaime wakes slowly. It’s dark, and it takes him a moment to associate the heat at his back as Brienne, the weight across his side, the soft pressure on his belly, as her arm protective around his waist again. Damp puffs of her breathing breeze across his shoulder. Jaime hums softly, nestles back and is rewarded by Brienne’s arm tightening slightly, her fingers tensing against his skin. He wants to know the time, but succumbs to the temptation of comfort; Brienne wakes early after all. The alarm will sound._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (It says chapter 7, but really it's chapter 6, part 2! You and I both know the truth: that this fic is only 8 chapters long 🧐😤 Enjoy! <3)

Brienne wakes well before Jaime. Has showered, blushed through a self-examination of the new marks on her chest and hips and thighs, and is dressed, brushing her teeth by the time he sits up. She watches him in the mirror as he passes a hand down his face, his hair delectably mussed, before he looks towards her and meets her eyes in the reflection. They watch each other until Brienne realizes she’s been brushing the same spot for ages and she breaks the contact to spit and rinse. When she turns, Jaime has risen from the bed and is walking towards her, unabashedly nude, somehow still golden in the cool fluorescents thrown from her bathroom, and so invitingly ruffled it takes everything in her power not to touch him.

He eyes her thoughtfully, smirks wickedly when she swallows thickly, desire kindles hot under his attentions. Her restraint is _superhuman_ : Brienne ushers him into her bathroom, closing the door firmly in his face before he can reach for her.

When he emerges, Brienne worries her lip. There’s a love bite just visible above the neckline of his shirt. Jaime laughs at her. “Seems you were a bit overenthusiastic, Starch,” he says. Before she can say anything, he reaches up and pulls her in for a hard, fast kiss. “I like it,” he says, voice low, dragging his teeth lightly over her throat. “And no one will notice.”

Brienne sways slightly when he releases her, debates the merits of pulling him back to bed as he moves towards the door. He catches her look, smirks and opens the door. “Let’s eat,” he says. Then purrs, “There’ll be time enough later.”

“Promise?” she asks, voice low, startling herself, and Jaime gives her a predatory smile.

Brienne intends for it to be a quick meal; she wants to speak with Olenna, and to visit Arya and Lyanna in the infirmary. But as soon as they arrive, her stomach grumbles so loudly that Jaime barks out a laugh. She meets this with a scowl, but he licks his lips with such exaggerated lasciviousness that she can’t help a begrudging snort and smile.

Once they settle, side by side, plates piled high, Margaery asks whether she might sit with them. Brienne hasn’t seen Margaery in years, had never known her particularly well, regardless that their paths crossed both because of Loras’ relationship with Renly, and because Margaery had been a pilot herself. Margaery’s smile is warm, seeming friendly enough. She tells them that Rhaegar is still unconscious, though they expect he will wake in the next day or so. The rest are awake, or had been when Margaery visited: injuries varied. Arya, perhaps the worst off, with a broken arm and suspected broken ribs. Margaery’s smile turns wry when she comments that Arya’s foul mood had permeated the entire infirmary until they threatened to move her to an infirmary off-base.

Smiling wryly, Jaime says, “Can’t take the wolf out of the Stark.” Margaery grins.

Jaime turns, stabs his fork into one of Brienne's last roast potatoes, and Margaery only laughs when Brienne yelps, holding the potato down with the flat of her knife. “Get your own bloody potatoes,” she grouses, and meets his gaze. His smile is mischievous but his eyes are fond and her stomach swoops, she feels herself soften in response.

“Didn’t you ever learn to share, Starch?” he drawls, and she says archly, “Yes. And to be particular about it.”

He laughs, pulls his fork free in concession. With a final warning glare, Brienne removes her knife and Jaime’s fork is back, scooping up the potato and shovelling it in his mouth before she can do so much as hiss in outrage. He somehow manages to look ridiculously adorable, grinning around a full mouth of food, and Brienne finds it hard to glare.

“There’s nothing quite like a drift bond, is there?” Margaery asks. They both startle, turn as one to look at her, and Brienne feels a twinge of discomfort. Margaery doesn’t appear wistful, but Brienne is still uncomfortable with the years she spent out of a Jaeger; feels so raw in her awareness of how the drift can be with true compatibility, and is certain Margaery was well paired with her brother. Brienne can’t imagine stepping away from Jaime and Oathkeeper…

“No,” Jaime answers Margaery, pulling Brienne out of her thoughts. She wonders why he sounds a little gruff. “There’s not.”

“I actually wanted to say,” Margaery says, her smile fading into something more serious. “Thank you. Both of you. But Brienne,” Margaery turns wide, earnest eyes on Brienne and Brienne shifts uneasily. “Thank you.”

Brienne drops her gaze. She deserves no particular thanks. Truthfully, she thinks neither of them deserve thanks at all. She hadn’t liked it when refugees thanked her in the North, either. She says haltingly, “There really is no need. Jaime and I —”

“Oh, of course, you both saved the city. But I meant that I know it must have been difficult to return to a Jaeger after Eastwatch.” Margaery says it so baldly Brienne almost doesn’t feel the cold slap of the reminder. Almost. “But you did, and you saved us all. So, thank you.”

Brienne manages to look at her again, and Margaery offers a sad smile which grips Brienne’s heart. She nods stiffly, and Jaime says something to move the conversation on; Brienne doesn’t really hear it, but feels embarrassingly grateful. Margaery excuses herself soon after.

After she leaves, Jaime says quietly, “After Renly died, Loras didn’t want to pilot any more, so they retired. Margaery works with Davos now. She’s the dedicated psych for non-pilots with extensive traumas on base.”

“So… nearly everyone?” Brienne hazards, feeling unbalanced. Jaime only shrugs at this. Brienne nibbles at her lip, guilt tightening her stomach. She manages to say, “I had heard they stopped but not why…”

“As far as I know, Margaery doesn’t miss it,” Jaime says quickly. For a beat, Brienne gapes at him; it’s still fucking strange to be _known_ this way. Renly had occasionally said something which landed very close to home, but it was almost always flippant and accidental. No one had ever paid attention to her; and now the most intense person she’s ever met directs all his focus on her, eases past her defences to speak to the most vulnerable parts of herself and it’s… Gods, she likes it, and it terrifies her. She wonders if Jaime feels the same; remembers the drift, the way his feelings had swamped her after he’d killed Zaldrīzes, after she had shared her pride of him, knows he does. Her fingers curl with the sudden want to touch him. Put her hand on his cheek, or take his hand where he’s fiddling with his fork, or just wrap her arms around him, hold him close. It’s an unfamiliar impulse, and she holds more tightly to her own cutlery to stop herself.

Blithely, he continues, “I think she only piloted because it was expected. The Tyrells have… certain expectations.”

She knows her smile is a bit tense. Dryly she says, “Much like the Lannisters, then?”

Jaime turns to look at her. It’s a sardonic grin he offers. “Tywin Lannister expected only familial loyalty. Saving the world is the ultimate rebellion.”

Brienne smiles because she knows he wants her to, but it’s a flippant dismissal of everything he is, all he’s worked hard to become, which she doesn’t like. His mood shifts though, he steals the last bite of sausage from her plate and laughs at her angry " _Jaime!_ " Jaime clears his plate first, and he slides his hand to land warm on her thigh under the table. She breathes out slowly through her nose, and he squeezes gently in response. He doesn’t move his hand at all, though his thumb does stroke idly near her knee. It’s… soothing, and comfortable, and Brienne finds it increasingly disconcerting.

He rests his elbow on the table, props his chin on his hand, and murmurs, “This is hardly the most intimate thing we’ve done, Starch. You can wipe that pinched look off your face.”

She whips around to scowl at him, her face hot, and Jaime chuckles, then lets her go. “All right,” he says. She knows there’s a little hurt there, though he’s trying to hide it. He turns his gaze to the mess, watching the others in the space, though Brienne recognizes it as an act. His fingers drum on the table top, the edge of his mouth draws tight, and truthfully, now his hand is gone, she misses it. But she doesn’t know how to rectify the situation either: they haven’t talked about what they are or, or how, or even _if_ —

There are too many questions; too many uncertainties; too much still ahead of them to be distracted —

Brienne huffs internally, irritated by her own thoughts. Jaime isn’t a _distraction_. He’s — he’s utterly infuriating, and mostly just too quickly extraordinarily precious to her, and she just does not want to have this conversation, ever, but particularly not in the mess hall. In silence, she quickly finishes off her breakfast, and turns to him, hesitating.

She blurts, “I’ll see you in the infirmary?”

Jaime turns, watches her, his brow furrows for a beat before he smooths his expression into a false nonchalance, and nods. “Absolutely.”

Brienne hesitates. That earlier impulse to touch him surges, becomes near overwhelming. She thinks of leaning over, pecking him on the cheek before they part. It’s not something she’s ever done before, but it’s an unexpectedly delightful thought, and…

She looks around quickly as Jaime gets to his feet. Seeing no one nearby, Brienne rises, tugs on his hand so he turns, and she presses a kiss to his cheek, lightning quick. Before he can say or do anything, she turns, walks swiftly away, his stubble still tingling on her lips.

* * *

In contrast to the previous evening, the corridors are almost eerily quiet on the walk to Olenna’s office. It gives her time to settle herself, gather her thoughts. This, at least, is somewhat familiar. Working with Catelyn meant conversations like this one: anticipating problems and proposing solutions when Cat hadn’t yet spoken them aloud.

Loras is just leaving as Brienne arrives, and Brienne’s steps falter. She hasn’t seen him — in person — in years though flickers of him from Renly’s memories sometimes feature in her nightmares. He’s older, obviously, but looks at peace: a strange thing to think when Brienne has no real frame of reference. Then Loras sees her, and he sways to a stop. Several emotions wash across his face in rapid and brutal succession. Each of them Brienne catalogues. Each of them lands with a thud in the nest of guilt and heartache she carries.

He settles on some kind of affable neutrality, starts walking again. He nods to her as he passes, an acknowledgement between them which Brienne isn’t certain she grasps. But it does release the tightness in her chest, and she shakes herself, continuing to Olenna’s office.

“Ah, Brienne,” Olenna says absently, waving her in. “I thought I might see you today.”

Brienne straightens her shoulders and tries to shift the lingering unease. She sits in one of the chairs across from Olenna’s desk, and waits for Olenna to look up from whatever she’s doing.

“I think we should advance the mission to destroy the breach,” Brienne says when she does.

Olenna doesn’t respond, only raises an eyebrow and gestures for Brienne to continue. “I know Foxtrot is a pilot short, but Oathkeeper could be retrofitted with the nuke if need’s be.” She and Jaime had spoke about it, hushed, in the dark. They agreed. “There won’t be Kaiju. We could do the mission alone.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Olenna says thoughtfully into the quiet. She raises her hand when Brienne goes to protest. “You will still be going, Brienne. But we have a pilot to take over for Arya.”

“What?” Brienne frowns. “Who —” She thinks of the look on Loras’s face, shakes her head. “Loras? Olenna. No.”

“Loras is well trained. A skilled boy,” Olenna says evenly. “He did a test last night; it seems he is capable of bringing nothing with him into the drift. It makes him compatible with anyone.”

“ _Olenna_ —”

“We all have our roles to play, Brienne.” Olenna’s eyes flick over Brienne’s shoulder, go distant for a beat, before she refocuses. “Let’s go over the plan again. You can bring Lannister up to speed before our debrief this afternoon.”

Somewhat distracted, Olenna runs through the plan for Brienne again, though it’s largely unchanged. Foxtrot Oscar is being fitted with a nuclear bomb, which they’ll drop into the breach, destroying it. Brienne and Jaime will be their escort in Oathkeeper, though it should be a relatively straightforward mission, considering they’ll preempt any Kaiju attack. There was no room for stupid mistakes rooted in exhaustion, so they would give it enough time for Brienne, Jaime, and Hunt to rest up. Another few days, at least.

This latter point is what makes Brienne nervous: it had been less than a week between attacks before this, and who could possibly predict at this point, but Olenna is immovable.

“We won’t see them again, Brienne,” she says firmly. Brienne hopes she’s right.

* * *

“They’re not letting me fucking leave,” Arya says by way of greeting. Gendry looks at Jaime and rolls his eyes. It’s the first friendly interaction he’s ever had with Gendry — though, he thinks wryly, friendly is perhaps a stretch. Perhaps, _not met with utter indifference_ was more accurate. Jaime raises a commiserating eyebrow.

“I saw that,” Arya snaps.

Jaime settles into the second chair as Gendry says, “Good. Maybe if I do it enough, you’ll stop complaining.”

“As if you’d been any better,” Arya mutters. Before Jaime can get a word in, Gendry starts in on what is clearly an ongoing argument. Jaime’s eyes start to glaze as they bicker: it sounds as though Arya has a broken arm and a few broken ribs, much as Margaery had told them. But before they could take Arya away for an x-ray of her chest, she had made Pia cry. Which — Jaime readily admits — is surprising for a number of reasons, not least that Arya usually knows when to quit it, and Pia has certainly dealt with far worse than Arya over the years.

Regardless, Jaime hadn't come to the infirmary to wait on a bickering couple. Into a lull, he drawls, “Do you actually need me here for this conversation?”

Arya’s eyes sharpen on him. “Not really,” she says, and Jaime meets her smirk with one of his own. Things settle after that. The conversation is mostly a trading of barbs; for the first time Jaime has an ally in Gendry, which is a little strange but mostly pleasant. He’d taken Gendry for a taciturn bore; it seems glowers can hide multitudes. A lesson he’s learning for the second time: the press of Brienne’s kiss to his cheek still lingers. Like some lovesick teenager, he misses her. Distantly, he thinks he should be embarrassed by that, but mostly he just hopes she'll arrive soon.

Jaime sees as Arya’s eyes flick across the infirmary periodically, looking for Pia. He always arches an eyebrow when she looks back at him. His favourite reaction is the snarl she offers the sixth time it happens.

“Getting back to your roots, I see,” he says.

She glares at him, and then tilts her head, expression shifting to curiosity. “Who do you reckon would win between a lion and a wolf?” Arya asks, and Jaime opens his mouth to respond when behind him, Loras says, “They’d take each other out, of course, leaving the roses to bloom on their graves.”

Jaime turns in his chair, knows he isn’t the only one to look at Loras in surprise. Most pilots have visited Loras at some point over the last few years. He’d been near enough to certification as a physical therapist before Olenna had wrangled him and Margaery into the Ranger program. When he and Margaery retired, most formal education was in shambles, so he had done some blend of study and apprenticeship with someone in the city. Olenna had wasted no time giving him a formal position when he was ready.

Jaime knows for a fact Arya has seen him at least three times. But if Arya’s mockery sometimes centres on Jaime’s lack of friends, Loras’s situation may be even worse. Certainly, no one here has ever made an effort in either direction. Jaime suppresses a wave of mistrust. He still remembers Loras' reaction to seeing Brienne the day of the trial; had thought it an inconvenience then, but now, it will be a big fucking problem if he acts on any ill will towards her. There's something else, though, too, some trepidation around the edges, a lingering sense of _Brienne's_ feelings about Loras, and unwarranted protectiveness tightens his jaw. 

He forces himself loose as Loras shifts under their collective scrutiny, clears his throat, and drags a spare chair from the empty bed beside them.

Belatedly Jaime says, “It’s good to see you, Loras,” and both Arya and Gendry quickly echo him.

Loras nods, then gestures to Arya. “I heard about your injuries.”

“She’s got only herself to blame for them,” Gendry interjects.

“How was I supposed to know the bloody Kaiju would hit us just as I disengaged?” she snaps.

Jaime leans back with a sigh as they descend into bickering once more, turns his head to Loras. “How is Olenna?”

Loras gives him a thin grin. “Gran is fine. But you know what she’s like. The whole sodding Shatterdome could collapse around her ears and she would be ordering around the survivors from on top of the smouldering ruins.”

Jaime laughs. “That’s true.”

“I love her,” Arya says. Then blinks. “The meds might be stronger than I thought.”

“That might be a good thing,” Loras says and Jaime glances over at him again. Notices for the first time that he looks more than just uncomfortable: almost apologetic. “I, ah, I came to tell you something, Arya. Nan will come to visit this afternoon, as well.”

Jaime crosses his arms over his chest, watches Arya. He has a feeling he knows what Loras will say; it makes sense, given the limited pilots available on base, and he feels a flicker of relief that their plan isn't needed. But Arya will not like it.

Her expression falls, like she’s guessed what comes next. She looks small suddenly, and Jaime is forcibly reminded that she’s barely half a year past her eighteenth nameday. She says, “Okay. Go ahead.” He feels a surge of unwarranted pride at the steadiness of her voice.

Loras says carefully, “The timetable is being advanced for the breach collapse mission. Once Hunt — and Jaime and Brienne, of course,” Loras adds with a glance at Jaime, “Have had the chance to recuperate, they’ll be heading out.”

“My arm won’t be healed,” Arya says, her jaw set. From the corner of his eyes, Jaime sees as Gendry shifts closer to the bed. “And if my ribs are broken…”

“That’s… the concern,” Loras says. He hesitates, then leans forward and says apologetically, “I will pilot with Hunt. In your place.”

Arya’s eyes go wet, but she blinks it away. “Okay.” Her voice is so small. Jaime feels a twist of sympathy. The thought of staying behind while Brienne went out without him makes him feel nauseous, and he thinks he would do true harm to anyone who tried to stop him from getting into his suit and into that cockpit with her. But Arya only straightens with a wince, then tries for a wry smile which falls a bit short. Her voice wavers a little when she says, “Good luck with that pillock.”

They all chuckle. It’s obliging, but also what Arya needs, and the tension eases, conversation picking up again. Jaime lets Loras take more central a role, and watches as Arya seems to accept the situation more and more the longer they chat. It is possible it’s the meds, Jaime thinks wryly, though he rather suspects Arya has more than a little of her mother’s pragmatism when the situation calls for it.

Jaime quietly extricates himself from the conversation when he notices Elia awake, making his way over to her. It’s disturbing, seeing her in bed again. Jaime suppresses the wrench of worry and instead cocks an incredulous smile at her. “Awful lot of trouble to get back into bed, Martell,” he says. Elia laughs and extends her arms up to him. Jaime leans down, takes her gingerly in a hug until she _tsks_ impatiently and pulls him tight.

“I’m not made of glass, Jaime,” she grouses. “Everyone always forgets I’m a fucking Jaeger pilot.”

Jaime bumps his chin against her temple and says, “It’s less that and more the fear of being known as the person who hurt _Elia Martell_. The Angel of the Shatterdome.”

“Ugh.” Elia releases him and rolls her eyes. “Shut up.”

He sits next to her, suppressing another twinge of worry and asks after her copilots. Rhaegar is still unconscious, though Elia makes plain that she and Lyanna will force him awake if he dawdles. Lyanna is off for their turn of the full physical examination. Elia then explains a little about the rescue, though admits the details are murky. She and Lyanna had been supporting Rhaegar between them in the choppy water, exhaustion dragging at them both, and Grey and Missandei had been gifts from the gods.

A nurse Jaime isn’t familiar with interrupts briefly to check on Elia, and when he leaves, Elia says darkly, “The Starks have been making arses of themselves all day. How Arya managed to make herself worse than Lyanna I’ll never know.”

Jaime smiles slightly. “I think Arya will be uncharacteristically cooperative from now on.”

“Ah,” Elia says sagely with a nod. “The notorious _Making Pia Cry_ incident.”

“The very same.”

Smiling slightly, Elia straightens in the bed, and looks him over. “And how about you, then? Aren’t you in need of some…” She trails off, narrowing her eyes briefly before her smile turns knowing.

Jaime frowns at her. “What?”

Elia flicks her fingers in the direction of his neck. “I know Jaeger bruises. That one looks decidedly more intimate.”

“Ah,” Jaime says, resists the urge to touch the love bite he knows is visible just above the neckline of his shirt and instead leans back in his chair insouciantly. Beyond knowing Brienne’s inclination for privacy, he doesn’t know her feelings on telling anyone anything about them. Hells, they hadn’t even talked about what might be between them _to_ tell anyone. He knows — he knows, he _knows_ — how skittish she can be, but the whiplash of her discomfort with his hand on her thigh where no one could possibly see it, before she kissed him very publicly on the cheek… It had been disconcerting, even if he’d rather liked the kiss. He settles on, “I’m sure I can’t say.”

“Can’t you indeed,” Elia says. The godsdamned thing of it is, he wants to tell Elia. And everyone. Anyone. Brienne is — she's so wonderful. He marvels at how stupid absolutely every other person she has ever met has been, that _he_ is the first to realize it. Mostly he thinks Elia would understand; while, with respect, neither Lyanna nor Rhaegar could hold a candle to Brienne, Elia had still found people she couldn't bear to be parted from, and that... His chest goes tight with longing, and he wants Brienne to arrive, wants to see her, and — 

And Elia is looking past him, over his shoulder, her smile softening. “I should perhaps ask your co-pilot. She looks ever so relieved to see you.”

His heart skips, but some protectiveness for Brienne also curls around his throat, settles in his belly, and he sits up, narrows his eyes at Elia. Rationally, he knows Elia is too kind to badger a stranger, but still he finds himself hissing, “Brienne won’t appreciate the joke. _Don’t_ —”

“Brienne, is it?” Elia interrupts, flashing him the barest of eye rolls before she turns her face upwards and smiles welcomingly. Jaime shoots her another warning glare before he clears his expression and turns to look up at Brienne. It’s a mistake. They’ve only been apart an hour, yet still he’s struck by how much he somehow missed her, how bone-deep his relief is at seeing her. There’s some mirror of the feeling on Brienne’s face as she watches him; that she clearly drags her eyes from his face to look at Elia lands in his chest, smug gratification chasing pleasantly through his veins. All at once, he wants desperately to take her back to quarters and refamiliarize himself with how her skin tastes.

Jaime forces himself to ease into his seat again as Brienne says, “Yes, and you must be Elia?”

Elia smiles with a nod, gestures Brienne to sit. Jaime says, “You may also have heard Elia referred to as an angel,” he pauses for effect, then adds dryly, “I’ve found rather the opposite.”

“Cheers, Jaime,” Elia says with a roll of her eyes. But she smiles again, looking at Brienne. “I’ve already said this to Jaime, but thank you. I hear you were both incredible.”

Jaime shifts in his seat so he can more readily see Brienne, and is distracted as her cheeks mottle red. He eyes her throat, her blush sweeping down to her chest where last night it had sketched up. Brienne is determinedly not looking at him, which he finds frustrating and admirable in equal measure. He knows how easy she is to rile, that she knows he’ll try, but her focus is intent on Elia and for that he’s begrudgingly pleased.

He lets their conversation wash over him. He knows he pays Brienne disproportionate attention, lets his gaze linger, but if Elia has guessed already that something is between them, he can't rationalize a reason to hide it. No one else will notice. They can have the broader conversation about public boundaries later. For now, Jaime sighs contentedly as Brienne flicks the occasional glance at him, her cheeks pinking almost reflexively every time.

“Why Jaime,” Elia says sweetly after a few minutes where he's said nothing at all, drawing his attention back. He resists the urge to narrow his eyes at the look on her face, one he’s certain of all the people on base, only she can manage: the look of being so innocent, butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. “You seem preoccupied. I know how a first f- _fight_ can affect a person. Perhaps the afternoon in bed,” she suggests, widening her eyes, blinking innocently, “Or at least an afternoon snack? If you’ve not had a nibble already, that is.”

“All right!” Jaime says, standing. Brienne frowns up at him reproachfully, and he wonders if a person can somehow catch physical responses through the drift because he feels his cheeks heat. “I think we should leave Elia to her own devices.”

“Devices,” Elia says thoughtfully. “Another fine way to spend a few hours.”

Jaime says his farewells, urges Brienne to do the same, then hustles her out, throwing a glare over his shoulder in Elia’s direction. She smiles brightly, and gives him a wave.

* * *

The afternoon escapes them — they’re called back to the infirmary after lunch to have their own physicals. He visits his brother while Brienne lingers to speak with Arya and Lyanna. Learns the double event, as it’s being called, was likely because of Tyrion’s drift with the Kaiju brain. That it is to be replicated — this time _with_ Sam — in the coming days. Jaime grinds his teeth; conceives of six different plans to get Tyrion out of the city before that happens. Eventually Brienne arrives with Olenna, and that relief at seeing her again is once again staggering, and as absurd as it is pleasing. Her eyes are bright above her pink cheeks, and it’s all he can do to resist kissing her in greeting. Tyrion’s raised brow and Olenna’s sly smirk help. As do the arrivals of Loras and Hunt — who demonstrates unexpected brain power by staying as far from Jaime and Brienne as it’s possible to do in the limited space of Tyrion and Sam’s lab.

Olenna goes over the time table: likely they’ll make for the drift in two day’s time, once the nuke is fitted. Then the official debrief begins: a review of the fight, and an explanation of how Grey managed to save everyone. Jaime thinks briefly that he’s the true hero: the level of ingenuity… Brienne meets his look, and it’s clear she thinks the same.

By the time Brienne leads him back to her quarters, Jaime feels desperate in a way he hasn’t since he discovered masterbation. Brienne proves herself marvellous again, matches him, and they’re on each other as soon as her door shuts. Their clothes go and it’s Brienne who tosses him on the bed, and it’s the fucking sexiest thing that’s ever happened to him. He surges up to his knees, reaches for her, pulls her down, wrestles her onto her back. He tracks the constellations of freckles across her strong shoulders with his tongue, mouths down her chest to lavish attention on her breasts as she squirms under him, she whines his name and he releases her nipple with a wet pop that makes him groan and Brienne gasp. He continues down, kissing, licking and nipping his way to the blonde curls of her mound.

She stutters some protest, and he looks up at her. He’s left fresh love bites all over her belly, freckles dappling even those pink marks. Her breasts are pebbled, nipples taut, and her eyes. _Seven help him_. Her eyes are wide, dark, somehow only ever more striking every time he looks in them. She shifts under him, her legs opening, and the musk of her arousal is intoxicating, his mouth waters.

Brienne’s mouth parts when he groans, _Gods_ , her mouth is nearly irresistible. Somehow she is perfect: everything _Brienne_ shines through all of her mismatched features, all the ways she moves and holds herself, the lines of her strong muscles when she shifts and flexes, the scars that show how she gives her heart to the world, and he — and he… he just likes her. He likes her so very much. He likes every godsdamned inch of her.

“Starch,” he says, playful but also questioning. It’s enough to ignite a flicker of impatience.

She sets her jaw, mulish, and says, “ _Jaime_.”

“Brienne,” he growls, pleased when she shivers. Then he pours all the filth he can muster into his smile and says, “Shall I prove to you how good I am with my tongue?”

He laughs at her exasperated gurgle, the demanding way her thighs slide against him, and wastes no time pressing her incredible legs wide to settle between them, hitching them over his shoulders.

He luxuriates in the slight metallic tang on his tongue, the sounds she makes, her heels pressing into his back when she undulates against his face, her fingers first tentative then demanding in his hair. She clenches around his fingers curling and thrusting, as he sucks at her, teases her clit with his lips and his teeth and his tongue. Her hips move faster, more frenetic, the guttural sounds pulled from her throat curl down his spine, rest heavy like pride in his gut, and he _adores her_ when she shouts his name as she comes, his chin soaked as he works her through it.

Once her aftershocks have faded, Jaime nips at her inner thigh, chuckles when she startles with a soft whine. Wiping his face off on the sheets, he crawls up her body. He gives her a languid kiss, likes that she has no hesitation tasting herself in his mouth. He lets her pull his full weight across her when she wraps her strong arms around him.

They break long enough for him to grab a condom, and it’s the sweetest torment as Brienne puts it on him again. She then looks at him, shy, and says, “My turn tomorrow,” and Jaime groans so loudly Brienne startles. She smiles though, when he ducks to kiss her, deep and messy and playful, and he shivers when she strokes down his back. Her legs fall open and Jaime sinks between them, his cock straining as he slides against the wet heat of her cunt. She gasps, drawing her knees up, her strong thighs bracketing his hips. Jaime raises his head, and Brienne watches him, her expression wanting and tender, and it resonates deeply, spreads to fill his chest until he near aches with it. Brienne is — she's everything that makes anything worthwhile. He's overcome with the power of the thought, leans down, kisses her softly this time, his knuckles tracing her jaw. She shivers, and gives a little questioning whimper, rolling her hips against him.

Jaime breaks the kiss with a soft chuckle, nudges her chin with his nose. “Demanding,” he says.

“Tease,” she murmurs back. She bites her lip, looks adorably pleased, and Jaime groans again, ducking to give her another quick peck. He positions his cock, and swallows her gasp as he thrusts.

They start slow, and gentle, and they watch each other. It’s the most intimate fuck he’s ever had, catching the way her eyebrow ticks, her lips tremble, the soft gasps as her orgasm builds. The way she clearly fights the impulse to tip her head back, keeping her eyes on him. He gives in, kisses her deeply, pressing her into the bed, Brienne clutching at him, holding him close.

They break and she grunts with each thrust, each sound landing at the base of his spine, her eyes dark and increasingly desperate, her mouth open and wet and red, and it’s all he can do to keep a steady pace, to resist lowering his head again to bite at her shoulder. He wants to _watch_ and she’s — _Gods_ —

“Fuck, fuck — _Brienne_ —” She moans low in response. She moves her legs, pulling them higher so he sinks deeper, her feet locking at his back. She gasps, “Faster,” and Jaime growls, hips snapping. He’s distantly aware of the sounds their bodies make, of the bed shifting, but she feels so good around his cock, and her face — _Gods_ her _face_ —

She’s straining, eyes glazed and astonishing, cheeks so red, her lips pink and swollen and parted as she whimpers, keens, and Jaime’s getting close, so, so _close_. He thrusts his hand between them, seeking out her clit, and as soon as he finds it, Brienne arches, breath hitching in that _way_ that he heard in the drift, that he drew from her last night, and he curses, moves faster, she gasps _please_ , and _Jaime_ , and _now_ , and _Gods_ , until she whines, long and loud, trembling around and beneath him, coming undone so sublimely, and Jaime shouts her name, following after.

* * *

Jaime wakes slowly. It’s dark, and it takes him a moment to associate the heat at his back as Brienne, the weight across his side, the soft pressure on his belly, as her arm protective around his waist again. Damp puffs of her breathing breeze across his shoulder. Jaime hums softly, nestles back and is rewarded by Brienne’s arm tightening slightly, her fingers tensing against his skin. He wants to know the time, but succumbs to the temptation of comfort; Brienne wakes early after all. The alarm will sound.

He wakes a second time, the artificial lighting of her quarters in the very early stages of turning on. A feature to mimic the natural sunrise, and one he had turned off in his quarters years ago. Brienne is still pressed against his back, though her hand has moved, her arm curling under his so her fingers press into his collarbone.

Carefully, he shifts, rolls in her hold. As far as he knows, there were no nightmares last night. He thinks she looks peaceful now, at sleep, and he's grateful she's had this one night without disruption. He strokes the hair from where it sticks to her cheek, letting the sweat-dried tangles catch at his fingers. In her sleep, her nose wrinkles, entirely adorable, and affection wraps around his heart, warm and acute, burbles up his throat and to release it, he chuckles quietly. He regrets it as Brienne stirs, blinking slowly, but regret is quick forgotten when she smiles at him. It's such a soft and sleep-rumpled smile, and the sudden awareness of how dear and _important_ she is strikes him, tenderizes him and he manages to smiles back, feels it's a bit watery, acts on the inevitable swell of near-painful affection again, presses forward to kiss her to wakefulness.

“Come shower with me,” he says when they break apart, and leads her from bed. She looks doubtful, and it’s quickly clear that he was being optimistic, perhaps should have better remembered. The shower is far too small to hold them both at once, really barely manages one, and Brienne bodily maneuvers him into the stall first. She wraps him in a towel when he steps out, kisses him, and he’s distracted by her mouth again, his hands at her hips as she still grips the towel across his chest. Brienne yelps when her naked back hits the cold of the wall, and they pull apart.

Jaime dresses while she showers, thinks he'd quite like to hold Brienne's hand to breakfast, that perhaps they might at least start to discuss those public boundaries before leaving her quarters. He scrubs a towel through her hair when she steps out and wipes herself down. She grouses, but he sees the telling twitch of her lips, and he laughs.

Brienne’s batting him away, struggling into trousers when the Kaiju siren sounds.


	8. we are breathing and letting go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Kaiju siren sounds and the timeline for the breach mission is moved up.
> 
> From deep in the canyon, a crackling blue like lightning scatters through the orange glow. A shadow obscures the light, then they watch as the Kaiju rises, and rises, and rises, its length and bulk easily twice that of Foxtrot Oscar ahead of them. Its tail is a series of tentacles ending in what look like spikes, and Brienne shudders, her stomach turns as she thinks of Shadow, thinks of Shadow snatching Renly away, remembers fighting Shadow alone, her pulse hammers and _now is not the time_ , but —
> 
> “Come back to me, Starch,” Jaime interrupts quietly, firm. _We’re in this together_ , he thinks fiercely. _I’m not leaving you alone._
> 
> It disrupts the memories, and she turns her head, focusses on Jaime. He says, low and insistent, “That’s right. We finish this together. You and I.”
> 
> _Gods._ The drift is a damnable thing. Her usual defences don’t work, and somehow she doesn’t want them to, and she — she believes him. She does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is going up a day late! Life got away from me yesterday, but we're nearly to the end! Just the epilogue after this. Many thanks to C for spot checks, advice, naming one of the Kaiju, and having tea and patience with me while chatting out how best to work this chapter. This chapter's a hefty one, folx, and I very much hope you enjoy <3
> 
> Content warning for minor character death, and for Pacific Rim-level violence.

She feels a little silly and impossibly warm as Jaime scrubs a towel through her damp hair. She slept through the night, which is a gift, and woke to Jaime’s fond eyes and the press of his mouth, impelling her to wakefulness. She bats at him now, but he only laughs, reaches his hand to her chest, helping hold the towel steady as it slips when she reaches for her face cream. Her cheeks pink, but he doesn’t do more than press his palm to her sternum, pinning the towel in place.

In these moments, it’s hard to remember they’re at war. It’s hard to remember they have anywhere to be. It’s hard to remember why she had ever convinced herself she might not be made for this — this softness, this intimacy, even if it’s almost a cheat, helped along by the drift, there’s time yet for them to cement things between them, if that’s — if that’s what they choose.

_Gods, she hopes they choose this_.

He’s laughing now, the humidity in the air from her shower seems to dance with the sound. She grumbles, half-habit and half-true because it makes it difficult to pull on her trousers, but perhaps more to the point, it makes it difficult to _want_ to pull on her trousers and they have to get to —

The warning light flickers first, then the Kaiju siren sounds, and the air leaves her lungs, taking her sentiments with it.

* * *

Brienne reaches for the door, but Jaime takes her hand and tugs her into a turn. He looks at her fiercely, then is rising, pulling her head down, and his kiss is hard, lips crushed between teeth. He eases just enough to demand her mouth open. His tongue is hungry and urgent, and she feels his fear, and his rage, and his — his care. Her breath hitches, and her eyes burn, her chest tight and painful, and she wraps her arms around him, presses close to him, almost clinging as she meets him.

When they release one another, she puts a hand to her mouth, tries to catch her breath.

* * *

Olenna finds Brienne before she enters the prep room, beckons her aside. Brienne has known Olenna for years, has seen her cold with fury and aflame with victory and this — this is something dull and grim. Low, insistent, Olenna says, “There are no guarantees. But I will ask that you do your damnedest to bring my grandson back home.”

Brienne’s voice sticks in her throat, but Olenna looks at her with some sense of inevitability that lands like a punch to her gut. Brienne swallows, forces a stiff nod. “I will.”

* * *

Jaime is across the room. Technicians move around him in a mirror of how they move around her, checking the responses of her suit, making final tests on the body armour, testing the magnetic interfaces at her spine, her feet, her limbs… She watches his profile, should look away. But she — she wants to remember everything. It’s a ridiculous impulse; either they will survive and she need not do this, or she will die protecting Jaime and it doesn’t matter.

But. She can’t tear her eyes away.

He’s looking straight ahead. The harsh lights somehow still bring out the golden highlights of his hair. A muscle in his jaw ticks and she almost misses it. The dusting of his stubble is thicker than it has been; with no razor in her quarters, he had meant to return to his after breakfast to shave. But with the siren — She cuts off the thought. This suits him, accents his high cheekbones, making the marginal downturn of his mouth more grave. She wants to run her fingers through the bristles, see if he might shiver.

He drops his head when a technician says something and his expression clears for a moment as a smile comes swift. The corners of his eyes crinkle and Brienne remembers kissing him there just before they —

There’s a crackle in the commlink in her ear, an echo of it over the speakers, and her head snaps forward. The technicians around her stop, the room goes eerily quiet, and then:

“This is Marshal Olenna Tyrell. This announcement is being relayed to all Shatterdome personnel.”

Brienne turns then, looks back towards Jaime and finds him watching her. He looks so serious, but the corner of his mouth ticks up when she meets his gaze. They hold steady as Olenna speaks. The Marshal refers to the united front they’ve built, under one banner instead of many, and Brienne thinks _Yes, yes that is what Olenna has created here_. Jaime’s eyes blaze when Olenna speaks to people answering the call; Brienne’s heart twists when she says none today are alone.

Olenna says, “Today, we face the monsters that are at our door. We bring the fight to them.” She pauses, then, “We finish what they were foolish enough to begin.” As though they’re already drifting, they both straighten. Jaime smirks a little, and Brienne makes herself smile in turn, and a technician stands from where he had been crouched, checking something at her feet, and says, “Ranger Tarth. You’re ready.”

* * *

Podrick says, “T-15 seconds until neural handshake initialization. The computer will take over from here.”

“You know, I did not expect this,” Jaime says, and Brienne turns her head to look at him. It’s still a little strange, piloting from the right side. But Jaime looks somehow exactly where he ought to be, on the left. “Joining the program I thought — well. You know what I thought.” His smile turns wry, but his eyes stay soft. She manages a stiff nod, finds it hard to swallow. His voice is a little confounded, a little wondering, as he says, “But here you are, too.”

“Jaime,” she says weakly. He watches her, and there’s maybe something a little expectant in his expression, and — and he’s right. There are words stuck in her throat, and they’ll drift soon so maybe they don’t need to be said, but she thinks about this morning, before the siren sounded, and —

“It’s all right, Starch,” he murmurs in response to whatever he sees, and it isn’t. _It isn’t_. She’s no coward. He starts to turn away.

“ _Jaime_ ,” she tries again, a little hoarse. His eyes sharpen on her. Her heart thuds. “When I was, in the North. I. I stopped thinking about. The future. But now — there are things I want.” He’s trying to keep his expression neutral, she can see that struggle clear on his face, but his eyes are shining, hopeful, and she, _Gods_ , yearning fills her until she near trembles from it. She forces herself to hold his gaze, to say it. “With — you.”

He says her name on a heavy breath which seems to pass over her like a physical thing, but whatever he means to say next is lost as the computer says, “ _Neural interface ready. Initiating._ ”

Brienne has just enough time to suck in a breath —

_Brienne bares herself to him, and he can see how hard it is for her, how brave she’s being, and he’s honoured, gratified... But... he is also an impatient man who already thinks she's marvellous and he very much wants to take her nipple into his mouth_

_His stomach swoops when Addam takes his hand and pulls him on. “Get a move on, Lannister. We’ve a reservation to get to.” He grins, tightens his hold_

_Next they’re on the mat, she remembers Tarly’s disdain. Hunt’s apology is feeble, and her punch dislocates his nose. She breaks Bushy’s next, snarls when Ambrose scarpers_

_Cersei’s hair billows in the wind, her eyes are hard but in the way he knows: she’s frightened and vulnerable. “You_ swore _—” No matter what he says, she doesn’t believe him and it hurts_

_Catelyn visits her in hospital, tells her of the work her family does. Catelyn is earnest as she speaks, and when she offers her a place, she accepts immediately_

_Tyrion’s smile is too knowing, and as his brother opens his mouth, he says, “Shut up.” Tyrion chortles out an, “I knew it”_

_Jaime is softening inside her, his weight heavy and welcome as they catch their breath. He ducks suddenly, starts ghosting kisses into the scar of her cheek. It tickles, is impossibly sweet, makes her squirm and smile despite herself, mixes pleasingly with her languor until she presses her fingers to his jaw, guides him back to her mouth_

_He glances at her as they make ready. Brienne looks the Warrior incarnate in her pilot suit: she stands tall, the suit accentuating how broad and strong she is, her chin raised in that way he’s learning, the way he likes. Then she cuts him a look and her eyes are calm meeting his, and he supposes he ought to feel frightened to face Kaiju for the first time but instead he just feels —_

“ _Initialization complete._ ”

_Gods_. Brienne sucks in a sharp breath. She hears Jaime do the same, his consciousness flickering alongside hers. Oathkeeper hums for her, for _them_ , and Jaime is pleased through the connection. She thinks to Oathkeeper that it’s beautiful, and Jaime echoes her, and her heart fills as Oathkeeper purrs to them both.

“ _Begin calibration,_ ” the computer says, and they run through the motions. It’s like breathing, it’s so easy, her stomach swoops with the pleasure of it until — What if this is the last —

“Don’t,” Jaime interrupts. His voice is low and commanding, rooted in fear he’s trying to suppress. The rapids of his mind are different now; she knows she can navigate them, avoid the sharp rocks, the treacherous tumbles, and go where there are gentler eddies, like pools sun-warmed in spring, and she finds she likes all of it, the danger and the calm, wants to linger, wants to learn more, and Jaime’s there in her mind, similar thoughts and a resonant longing they trade back and forth through the drift until she aches with it.

_We can’t do this_ , she thinks. And after a moment, affirmation slips through their connection, and he does his best to clear his mind. Brienne swallows, reaches out and opens the short range communication channel. “We’re ready,” she says.

* * *

Olenna says, “Oathkeeper. ETA to drop zone is ten minutes.”

“Understood, Marshal,” Jaime says. “Status on Kaiju?”

“They remain in a holding pattern at the breach.” There’s a pause, then, “But they’re quick. Both are Category Four. Codenames Dozgosor and Snapper.”

“Understood.” He flicks closed the comms and looks over at her. Brienne meets his gaze, when the corner of his mouth lifts wryly, she does her best not to think about how he tastes, where his mouth has been, but of course — they’re connected. Jaime’s expression shifts, becomes heated, and there’s a few seconds where their memories coalesce. It isn’t — there’s an ache to each moment that anchors in her gut.

Brienne pulls back, Jaime sweeps in to follow her before he remembers, and draws away, too. He clears his throat. “Two Category Fours,” his voice is rough, Brienne shivers. Through the drift, she feels him shake himself. “Nothing we haven’t handled before, Starch.”

She makes herself smile. Knows he doesn’t believe it any more than she does.

* * *

A chopper pilot says, “Disengaging transport,” and they’re being released, falling fast towards the roiling waves. All-ways communication is opened, and Brienne suppresses a first tremble of unease when Loras’ voice comes through, reporting that Foxtrot is ready to submerge.

Jaime confirms, “Hull ports sealed. Ready to submerge.” And Oathkeeper starts to descend into the deep.

* * *

It’s strange, so unbelievably strange, to move through water at this depth: the weight of the water presses on them, but if they move a certain way, it lets them glide, and. And — there’s something more to it. Some unanticipated delight in the challenge: it’s a thrill that skates light across her skin, and through the drift, Jaime sparkles with it. It pushes back on their shared strain, loosens some of their tension, and Brienne feels like she holds it with both hands — eager for the respite.

“Shall we, Starch?” Jaime asks, amusement curling through the drift, and it’s such a gentle thing but it just feels so much like Jaime. It burbles through her mind, tickles in her chest and unexpectedly, Brienne laughs. Jaime’s affection blossoms dazzling through their connection, Brienne’s face heats, and she sends a spread of her own affection back. Jaime laughs in turn, a burst of joy which cradles her. For the moment, all is light between them, and Brienne breathes deep.

* * *

“Oathkeeper,” Olenna’s voice cuts in. “Movement on your right.”

Brienne snaps to attention. Jaime sharpens beside her. They had switched to sensory instrumentation some time ago, when sunlight no longer reached them so deep beneath the surface. Still, the lights on their head puncture the darkness a few metres, and Jaime looks out the visor as Brienne scans the read-outs.

_“100 feet radius, clear,_ ” the computer reports, and when Brienne indicates she agrees, Jaime relays to LOCCENT, “There’s nothing there.”

Pod’s voice then, “On your left! It’s — it’s the fastest Kaiju on record.”

“We don’t see anything,” Jaime says, frustrated. Brienne thinks she sees a flash, a blur of tell-tale green at the edge of her sight, but it could easily have been her imagination.

_Not your imagination_ , Jaime thinks.

Brienne murmurs, “It’s moving too fast.” And Jaime’s agreement comes through, tinged in irritation, _Why aren’t they engaging?_

_I don’t know —_

“Eyes on the prize, Oathkeeper,” snaps Hunt. It shouldn’t have been a shock to hear him, yet still, some mess of emotion clogs her throat and Brienne sneers.

Loras then, his tone even, “We’re 600 metres from the drop. Let’s destroy the breach. Then we can get the fuckers.”

Renly’s voice echoes Loras’ in her mind — _Let’s get this fucker_ — Brienne’s heart wrenches. Jaime flickers sympathy, support, and shares her thought that they still ought to scan, to watch, but Foxtrot Oscar walks inexorably onwards. They can’t do anything but follow.

Foxtrot jumps over the edge of an underwater cliff, and Oathkeeper follows moments later. The water tugs at them, catches at their elbows, their wrists, as they fall. Sand billows up when they land, pinging off the metal of Oathkeeper’s legs and midriff. They’re deep enough now that submarine volcanoes crack the ocean floor spilling magma in orange smudges through the dark.

“400 metres,” Loras reports.

The largest is ahead of them, a canyon which plays host to the breach. A glow erupts from deep in the fissure, lighting on alien shapes of the deep and casting strange shadows. It’s unsettling. None are large enough to be Kaiju, certainly not category-4s, and still she studies closely the read-outs, her eyes flicking to the shapes. Jaime is just as unnerved, eyes keen on Foxtrot ahead of them, the waters all around.

The closer they get, the more the light permeates the darkness. Still nothing. _This isn’t right._

Then Loras reports 300 meters and the Kaiju emerge. They swim forward from the dark, just on the other side of the canyon. They’re enormous, and self-evidently made for water battle, green glowing lines highlighting their size, their eyes glinting the orange of the chasm. One of them, Snapper, has a long snout with razorlike teeth protruding, and puts Brienne in mind of a crocodile she had seen once at the zoo. Jaime studies the other, Dozgosor, thinks it looks like some ungodsly hybrid of a bull and a shark: horns and fins and sharp looking hooves.

Seeing them at last is a strange relief. No more shadows, no more mystery. Just fucking godsawful monsters they can fight. And they can win. Her earlier tension snaps. In its place is the thrum of battle, her heart pumping retribution. Through the drift she can feel Jaime, his blood up, a predatory thrill in his veins.

But the Kaiju stay put. They hover, and they watch, from the other side of the canyon. Like they’re waiting.

Olenna’s voice comes through, “Foxtrot. Kaiju remain in position.”

Frustration flares in her gut followed by a tremble of intuition, Jaime flickers a question, and she thinks again, _Something isn’t right_.

She calls, “Foxtrot, stop!”

Foxtrot lurches to a stand-still, and Brienne sighs out a small breath of relief. Hunt says, “Tyrell — why are you stopping?”

Loras ignores this, says, “What is it, Tarth?”

“Why are _they_ stopping?” she asks. Kaiju do not _wait_. The one at the Trident had been under the water, but Brienne remains certain that had been a tactical maneuver rather than born out of fear — _Brienne_ , Jaime queries impatiently. She thinks, _Kaiju have one purpose_ — _yes_ , he thinks, _attack and destroy_ — _right, so why have these two lingered by the breach_ _for_ hours _?_

“Something isn’t right,” she insists. “Why aren’t they attacking?”

“I don’t give a damn,” Hunt snarls. “Let’s make the godsdamned drop!”

“Foxtrot,” Olenna interrupts. “Continue the mission. Worry about Kaiju behaviour after the package has been delivered.”

“No,” Loras says. “Tarth is right. Something is wrong here.”

“Foxtrot — ” Olenna starts, stops when there’s some commotion in LOCCENT. Brienne thinks she hears Tyrion’s voice; Jaime is certain he does. He tries to suppress his worry, _They were doing that bloody drift with the Kaiju brain today —_

_Your brother did tell me that he’s a genius_ , she offers, and there’s a wry crack of amusement in response to that.

“Foxtrot. Oathkeeper.” Tyrion has somehow taken control of the comms, and Jaime’s anxiety spikes. Brienne breathes through it, extends out to him, a tether. “Blowing up the breach is not going to work! The breach may be open, but that does not mean the bomb will get through.”

“What do you mean?” Loras asks.

A new voice, someone Brienne doesn’t know — _Sam_ , Jaime thinks — continues, “The breach reads the Kaiju like a barcode at the grocery store and then lets them pass. You’ll have to fool the breach into thinking you have the same code.”

“How?” Jaime demands.

Tyrion answers. “You must lock onto a Kaiju and ride it through the breach. It will then read the Kaiju genetic code and let you pass.”

“If you don’t,” Sam says, somehow apologetic through his urgency, “The bomb will deflect off the breach. The mission will fail.”

Brienne has barely a beat to wrap her head around this when Podrick, sounding distant, says, “Third signature emerging from the breach!”

Olenna relays it, “Third signature emerging from the breach.”

Loras shouts, “What category?”

Strained, Olenna says, “Category five. The first ever.” A pause, then, “Codename Kraken.”

From deep in the canyon, a crackling blue like lightning scatters through the orange glow. A shadow obscures the light, then they watch as the Kaiju rises, and rises, and rises, its length and bulk easily twice that of Foxtrot Oscar ahead of them. Its tail is a series of tentacles ending in what look like spikes, and Brienne shudders, her stomach turns as she thinks of Shadow, thinks of Shadow snatching Renly away, remembers fighting Shadow alone, her pulse hammers and _now is not the time_ , but —

“Come back to me, Starch,” Jaime interrupts quietly, firm. _We’re in this together_ , he thinks fiercely. _I’m not leaving you alone._

It disrupts the memories, and she turns her head, focusses on Jaime. He says, low and insistent, “That’s right. We finish this together. You and I.”

_Gods_. The drift is a damnable thing. Her usual defences don’t work, and somehow she doesn’t want them to, and she — she believes him. She does. _Jaime_.

_Brienne. Okay_?

_Okay._

Jaime says loudly, “Foxtrot. We’re maybe 100 metres behind you.” Through the connection, they make a plan, and he continues, “We’ll come around your three o’clock and flank it. If you can keep it busy for —”

“Jaime!”

Dozgosor is there beside them, and they have just the time to turn, to raise their hands and grab its horns, hold it back from skewering them. The momentum still pushes them, skidding through the sand, and they brace themselves, one leg back before Dozgosor steadies itself. Jaime has the half thought and they’re tightening their hold, slamming their head into Dozgosor’s, once, twice, a spray of its green blood staining the water between them.

It’s dazed, and Brienne imagines pinning it — they throw an arm around its neck, and crash into the ocean floor. Jaime steadies his hold on Dozgosor’s neck, thinks of the sword, and Brienne triggers it. She spares a moment to relish its release, anticipates using it, and they reach back, ready to —

They’re wrenched forward, spun, Jaime shouts, releases his hold on Dozgosor’s neck. Brienne’s shoulder socket twinges, the suit mimics faint electric pulses — _her right arm_ — no, _their_ right arm is gone. Oil spills, spreads thick threads of black as crackles of electricity fizzle out in the water. Ahead of them, just visible, Snapper swims, a flash of metal near its head. Brienne gasps, tries to fend off a renewed surge of memories as Jaime groans through his shock. They have no _time_ — Dozgosor launches at them, sinks its teeth into their leg. She tries to shake it off, but it’s impossible to get strong enough footing in the sand —

“Jaime — You still —”

He understands her thought, lurches, hits the sequence, and the sword deploys from their left. They don’t swing wide. They plunge it down, through Dozgosor’s throat. Together, they drag Dozgosor to one of the magma vents and hold its head to the molten heat until it bucks so wildly it throws them off, knocking them to their knees. They’re unbalanced without their right arm; their right leg damaged, struggling to bear their weight. They lean on their sword, tip sunk into the sandy floor.

“Oathkeeper!” Olenna shouts. “Snapper at your twelve o’clock! It’s going full speed — get the fuck out of the way!”

“No,” Brienne gasps. “Brace —”

Jaime agrees; they plant one foot, dig in their knee, and thrust the sword forward as Snapper opens its maw and — its momentum carries it through their blade, slicing itself in half. Triumph flares between them, and Brienne leans into it, reaches to Jaime through it.

If they’d struggled to see before, it’s almost impossible now. Oil from their shoulder, from their leg, blackens the iridescent green of Snapper’s blood, sand swirling into the cloud.

“The release is jammed!” Hunt shouts over the open comm. “We can’t deliver the payload.”

“We’re still armed,” Loras says. “But the hull is compromised. Half our systems are compromised.”

“We need to override the —” Hunt breaks off with a shout, and the haze in the water clears in time for them to watch as Kraken slams Foxtrot through some rock formation, and then they’re tumbling end over end across the sand.

_We have to —_

_Move! Let’s go —_

It’s infuriatingly slow going as they drag their damaged leg through the grasping sand, stab their sword into the ground for greater leverage. Foxtrot has some fight yet — it’s hard to make out clearly, but soon the water around them is glowing faintly, green Kaiju blood spreading. Kraken stumbles back then opens its mouth, and releases a strange pulsating call, somehow visible through the water, vibrating through Oathkeeper’s hull. To the side, Dozgosor pulls itself upwards, and Brienne snarls, Jaime growls beside her, and they redouble their efforts.

Podrick says, “Both Kaiju are converging on Foxtrot.”

“Hold on, Foxtrot,” Jaime calls. “We’re coming.”

“No, Oathkeeper!” Loras says. “Do not come to our aid!”

Brienne ignores this, feels a flash of relief and gratitude when Jaime does, too. He’s blazing with fury in the drift, and she inexplicably flushes when he thinks, _You’re radiant with it, Starch._

“Do you copy, Oathkeeper?” Loras shouts. “Stay as far back as you can!”

“We can make it to you,” Brienne snaps. “Just — just hold on. Please.”

“No — Tarth. _Brienne_. Listen to me. Oathkeeper is nuclear.”

“No,” she says, sets her jaw. It’s in her mind, a thought she had not allowed, and at once Jaime knows it, too. She feels his shock through the connection, then the growing certainty. “No,” she insists again. “We can make it.”

“No. You can’t,” Loras says. “You know exactly what you have to do.”

“Starch,” Jaime says softly. He waits for her, though there isn’t time; somehow creates room in the drift for her rage and her heartbreak: a thousand cutting failures, battering at her heart. Through it all his battle fever is high and yet still he hurts with apology when she affirms, _We need to head for the breach._

_Tell him_.

She swallows thickly, says it out loud, “We’ll head for the breach.”

“Good,” Loras says. “That’s good. And Tarth. For what it’s worth.” A long pause. Brienne watches through Oathkeeper’s visor as Foxtrot, silhouetted against the orange and blue glow, stumbles to the edge of the chasm. Then, tinny and distant, Loras comes through again, “Renly always believed in you. Prove him right, will you.”

The sob lodges painfully in her throat. She manages to bite it off, halfway through. Jaime is beside her, watching her, steady through their connection, at the edge of her consciousness. Brienne draws a breath, then another. She sets her jaw, and looks at him. “Let’s go.”

He doesn’t say anything, only nods. They haul themselves forward, one fucking step at a time.

Over the comms, Hunt says to Loras, “We can’t just stand here.” Brienne hears the fear in his voice, her stomach twists. Jaime is grim through the drift.

“No,” Loras says. “But we can clear a path.”

After a beat, Hunt says, “Arya used to say, you fucking take the shot you fucking get. I guess this is it.”

Loras laughs. He says, “Detonation in T-10 seconds,” and then their connection goes quiet. LOCCENT is quiet, too, like everyone is waiting.

The silence across the comms is loud. Brienne’s chest is tight, her stomach pitches. Jaime beside her is fighting a wave of nausea, focusing on the battle fever. She stretches to him through the drift, and he responds, and it’s almost like they’re touching, hands held fast. From their vantage point, they see as Foxtrot’s lights begin the warning sequence. Together, Brienne and Jaime stab their sword into the ground, huddle as close to it as possible —

The light is blinding, then Oathkeeper is rattling around them, so loudly, so violently, they hold harder to the sword — and of a sudden her ears pop, and silence. Hollow, echoing, silence. They’re surrounded by air again, and for a moment it’s easier to move, somehow easier to breathe, the beam from their lights spears across the sand as unlucky fish caught in the explosion skid across the ocean floor.

Jaime looks behind them — a flash of premonition and they press down again as the water displaced by the blast crashes back, shoving them forward, they jerk and swing in the piloting frames as Oathkeeper shudders, stumbles down, into the sand and it seems to last an age before finally, _finally_ , settling.

“Jaime?” Brienne breathes when they steady. The control panel flashes red; water trickles through to splatter on her arm.

“I’m here,” he says, sounding shaken. Her ears are still ringing and shock is bleak, spreading cold through her veins. But through their connection, there’s a shared thrum of relief that steadies them both. He thumbs at the systems read out. “All systems critical. Fluid loss.”

“We’re leaking fuel,” Brienne confirms. Water is pouring more insistently, dousing their control panels, tracking down her visor. She reaches out, switches to another screen. It isn’t exactly a surprise, she reports, “Our right leg is incapacitated. Nearly nonfunctional.”

“Let’s finish this,” Jaime growls.

They stumble forward, to where Snapper’s two halves are rolling slowly across the sea floor on an unseen current. “LOCCENT,” Jaime says. “We have the Kaiju carcass. We’re heading for the breach.”

It takes an eternity — they struggle through the heavy water, the hungry sand, and finally they reach the edge of the canyon.

“Oathkeeper —!” Olenna warns, a little late as Kraken thumps to the ground in front of them. It looks burnt, bleeding green from endless wounds, the combined damage from its fight with Foxtrot and the explosion. Her stomach drops, but it growls at them, and at once, her fury flickers then reignites in her belly, its flames licking up her limbs until her hands clench, her jaw tightens. Through their connection, Jaime is incandescent with it.

“We see it!” Jaime glances at her. “Brienne?”

“Agreed,” she says. They let go of Snapper; Jaime counts, “Three — two —”

Brienne initiates the rear jets and they slam into Kraken. Its roar rattles around them — their momentum carries them over the edge, and they stab the sword through its shoulder, pulling it close. Kraken flails, its tentacles stab wildly into Oathkeeper’s back, deep, tearing, their suits mimicking with endless pinpricks as the already damaged systems blare alert after alert and — _Jaime_ — she can sense something’s not right, but they’ve got to —

“Hold on!” she shouts. She feels Jaime acknowledge: its weaker somehow, but the sword holds, stays firm as Brienne dives forward and fires their chest engine, uses nearly all their remaining fuel, but it works, with a pitiful screech, Kraken slumps into them and —

Lightning crackles all around — _This is it_ — and suddenly the ocean vanishes. The cockpit is suffused in an eerie purple glow. She feels lighter, like the gravity is less in the strange liminal space of the breach —

The sword abruptly retracts, jerking Brienne from her thoughts. Kraken falls away, and Jaime breathes out shakily, his arm falling as he sags into the support struts. Through the drift, he’s distant and vague in a way she can’t name, and through mounting alarm, Brienne hears it —

“ _Oxygen report. Left hemisphere. Critical levels. Operating at — 15% capacity._ ”

It is perhaps the easiest decision she has ever made. She detaches her oxygen, reaches over to him —

“ _10% capacity —_ ”

His thoughts are hazy through the drift. An almost drunken mix of anxiety, and triumph, and confusion, and fondness, such fondness that it hurt, all blurred around the edges as he drifts closer to unconsciousness. Brienne disconnects Jaime’s oxygen —

“ _5% capacity —_ ”

Connects her own to his suit.

“ _Left hemisphere. Oxygen replenishing._ ”

Jaime sucks in a long, gasping breath. She watches as he tries to open his eyes but they look heavy, flutter shut again. He draws another shuddering breath.

“Jaime,” she whispers. “It’s all right.” In her mind, she imagines pressing lingering kisses to his face. Holding his hand in the sunlight, just as he wanted —

_“Right hemisphere. Oxygen critical._ ”

There’s no time for that. Only for reassurances. “We’re here. We’re through.” She puts a hand to the side of his helmet. “We did it. Together. You and I.” Wishes they had more time — there is a chance for her. But. Her heart pumps with gentle agony. Her hand against his visor trembles. “I can finish this alone.” If her voice breaks on the last word, she takes solace that he won’t remember. “You can — you can always find me in the drift, if —” she stops. _Enough_.

“It’s all right,” she says again. Because it is. What’s important is that he will be safe. Safe, and whole, and alive. She hadn’t protected Renly; couldn’t protect Loras. But she can send him home.

She initiates the evac pod sequence, lingers long enough to ensure it’s functional. She turns back as Jaime rises, as the pod encases him.

She says, “LOCCENT. If-if you can still hear me, I’m disengaging. Reactor override system damaged. Self destruct requires manual activation.”

Oathkeeper keeps falling, a strange, ponderous float, slowly turning, and as soon as Brienne is free of the connections, she slips across the floor and manages to grab hold of the wall before she falls. Just as she regains her feet, there’s another change in pressure, her ears pop again and Oathkeeper twists. She lands hard, slamming her ribs on the edge of the platform. Pain whites out her vision. She yells through it as she struggles to her knees, panting as she crawls to the reactor.

“Manual override initiated,” she says. She hasn’t heard anything from LOCCENT, but maybe, somehow, they still hear her. “Core meltdown in T-60 seconds.”

It’s safer, to crawl, as Oathkeeper continues its bizarre tumble. She has no idea how far is too far, when she’ll have fallen too deeply through the breach to make it back. Her breath rattles, her ribs are agony, and she makes herself grab one of the struts. She hoists herself up, gritting her teeth through the pain, and slots her boots into place, flicks the switches to re-engage.

“ _Reactor meltdown in — 50 seconds. Oxygen operating at — 30% capacity.”_

Her suit reconnects to Oathkeeper. She whispers an apology to it, says, “ _Thank you_ ,” with her whole heart, and hits the sequence for evac pod release.

“ _Reactor meltdown in — 40 seconds. Oxygen operating at — 25% capacity._ ”

The struts lift her, as they had Jaime. She rises, and the pod closes around her, cradling her. She thinks, a little deliriously, that the light has changed again. Orange, like above, in the sea, and a little electric blue, like the breach.

There’s a loud puff of hydraulics in her ears, a jolt that rattles her ribs and makes her cry out. Then she’s rising — up, up — and as she rises, the pressure increases making it hard to breathe — Then there’s a blinding light and she turns her face away just as something hits the pod —

* * *

He wakes up, disorientated, alone in his head, in a small, cramped space surrounded by blue. Panic steals his breath, but Jaime clenches his fists, forces himself to calm.

A computerized voice in his ear: “ _Thirty seconds to surface._ ”

The escape pod. He’s in the escape pod. The blue around him is water. He doesn’t remember clearly — how did he get here?

“ _Fifteen seconds to surface._ ”

He’s rising fast — it’s getting brighter. He remembers his vision getting patchy: his oxygen levels were low. Brienne. Brienne must have put him in.

_Brienne._

“ _Five seconds. Four. Three. Two._ ”

The pod breaks the surface with a jolt and a bump and it’s only years of practise deflecting blows that means Jaime’s hand comes up in time to keep from whacking his head into the top of the pod.

Once it steadies, the panel over his head automatically opens, is propelled away with a soft hiss of hydraulics, and Jaime squirms, sits up, looks around. There’s no second pod.

_There’s no second pod._

Jaime taps his ear piece. “LOCCENT,” he barks. “Where’s the second pod?”

Thorny’s voice comes through, strained. “It’s good to hear from you, boy,” she says, and he’s warmed a little by that, but his panic is back and he _needs to know where the fuck Brienne is_.

“ _Olenna_ —”

She interrupts, “We are fairly certain the second pod launched.”

“ _Fairly certain?”_ he growls.

“Jaime,” and he knows that tone of voice. The bracing tone she uses when the news is bad. He rejects it. He rejects it. He rejects it.

“No,” he says.

“ _Jaime_.”

The ocean’s surface bubbles violently several metres to his left and the second pod erupts to the surface.

“It’s here,” he breathes, and there’s noise through the comms, but he doesn’t pay attention. Relief makes him weak, but he needs to see her.

It had come to him, just now. The last thing he remembers from the drift is Brienne thinking of kissing the corners of his eyes, the edge of his mouth. The last thing he remembers before he passed out is her saying something about finishing it alone. And the hells of it is, she had been alone. He had left her alone there, after everything, she was alone, he had left her, and he can’t bear her being alone any longer.

But — her pod is just floating there. He can see the fluorescent green spreading outwards through the water, a marker for rescue, just like his. But that’s the only thing that’s happened: no other system has triggered.

He scrambles to his feet, tries to steady himself as waves rock his pod, and he dives. His suit drags him down, makes swimming difficult, the water pulls at his boots as he kicks, waves filling his mouth when he breathes, and against a tide of panic, he forces himself to take smooth strokes. It takes too long — _too long_ — but finally he grabs hold of the buoys surrounding the pod, and pulls himself up, scrambling awkwardly to straddle the top.

The plexiglass panel is fogged over and he can’t see anything. Frantically, he initiates the manual sequence to open it. As with his, there’s a soft whoosh, a loud pop, then the cover over her head propels away from the pod and —

“Brienne,” he breathes. _Gods_. “Brienne?” She’s — she’s not moving. He can’t see clearly through her helmet but. It must be. That she’s unconscious. That must be — she must be unconscious. He reaches down, wrestles her helmet from her suit and chucks it aside. Her mouth hangs open slightly. Her scar is stark against her cheek, her freckles especially dark across her pale skin.

He tugs urgently at his glove, reaches down and tries to find — “I can’t find her pulse,” he says. LOCCENT is silent on the other end. He watches her chest. “I don’t think she’s breathing. Brienne? _Brienne_.”

Over the comms link comes, “Jaime…” He isn’t even sure who says it, but at once he absolutely despises them.

“ _Shut up_ ,” he snarls.

Jaime’s fingers tremble, brushing hair from her scarred cheek. “Brienne,” he whispers. “Please.” His voice cracks. “You can’t leave me. I just found you.” But she just lays there. Silent. Motionless.

Jaime curses. Fits his hands under her armpits and pulls, tugs, grunts at the awkward angle, at her weight, and wrestles her to sitting. She slumps, and he _hates her for doing this to him_ —

“No I don’t. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Remembers, it’s what they say, he whispers, “Come back to me.” He touches her face again. Lightly, carefully. Feather touches against her still warm skin — surely that means something? — until his thumb drags against her bottom lip, and —

Was that a puff of breath?

_Please. Please, Gods, let that have been a puff of breath._

Desperation claws at his throat. “Wake up, damn you,” he growls. There’s something in his ear; a request for confirmation or some useless apology or fuck, who cares. He tears his ear piece out, wipes angrily at the tears prickling painfully in his eyes, takes hold of her and pulls her close. “You can’t _die_. You’re too fucking stubborn to _die_. Wake up! Brienne!”

He holds his breath, and when there’s nothing, his heart breaks, the shards claw at his chest, at his throat, but he won’t — he _won’t_ — he holds her tighter. “ _WAKE UP!_ ”

Brienne flinches.

His breath leaves him in a heavy gust he sucks back in when _she speaks_. “Jaime?”

“ _Brienne_.”

She coughs, says haltingly, “You’re squeezing me too tight. I can’t — I can’t breathe.”

He releases her instantly, wrapping his hands over her shoulders and looks at her. He can’t actually fucking _see her_ though, because he’s crying, his fucking eyes are traitors, but her hand cups his face and it’s — it’s Brienne — _oh, Brienne is alive_ — no one else has hands which are so large and so dear and Jaime laughs, presses forward blindly and kisses her. He misses her mouth, doesn’t care that he’s found her chin, kisses her again.

“Jaime,” she breathes, and she’s uncertain, taken aback, he can hear it, but she’s pleased, too, relieved, beneath it all. He’s always been too much for most people; somehow he’s not too much for her.

He wants to touch her, to see her, to hold her. He wants to smell her. And It’s awkward, with her still in the cradle of the pod and him straddling the top, leaning down. “Come here,” he says. He takes a breath, blinks rapidly and finds her eyes. She looks a little dazed, which he can understand. And she might be hurt. The thought turns his stomach, curdles on his tongue and he forces himself to slow down. More gently, “Can you move?”

He watches as her eyes sharpen, as she takes stock, then nods. “I think so.”

“Get up here,” he orders.

She struggles a bit, it becomes obvious that her ribs are severely bruised, likely broken, and something is paining her leg. But between them, they manage to get her on top of the pod. She sits, her legs hanging over one side, and Jaime maneuvers so he sits behind her, his legs bracketing her, locking his arms around her middle. Brienne leans into him, takes a shaky breath.

The first of their rescue choppers flies by overhead, and Jaime reluctantly raises one arm, gives them a wave, and they circle away.

When the noise of the blades fades, Brienne says anxiously, “Did it — did it work?”

Jaime breathes out a shaky laugh. “I don’t know. I threw away my earpiece.”

“Why did you —”

“I had other, more immediate considerations.” He reaches up and very lightly taps the plastic cap of the one in her ear. “You’ve still got yours, Starch. What are they saying?”

“Oh,” she breathes. She raises her hand, and Jaime’s stomach clenches that her fingers tremble. She taps the two-way communicator, and says, “Marshal?”

She falls silent as she listens, and Jaime waits for the report. It becomes important again; an urgent uncertainty, the need that all the loss had been — had been for _something_. For everything. To quell his impatience, he presses his face into her neck, breathing deep. An inexplicable tang of ozone. The more understandable briny scent of the sea. Neoprene. Sweat. _Brienne_.

“Jaime,” she whispers, and he props his chin on her shoulder. Thinks she sounds — sounds relieved. Her voice shakes, “They — the Marshal. She says it — we did it. The breach is sealed.”

Relief is searing. He’s crying again, but Brienne is, too. Quiet sobs that he feels deep in his chest. Jaime drops his head to her neck again; he wants to hold her closer but is mindful of her injuries and settles for spreading his hands, pressing his palms flat to the armoured belly of her Jaeger suit. But she grips hard at his hands, tangles their fingers, squeezing tight, and tips her head back, awkwardly nuzzles her cheek into his temple. The relief makes him laugh through his tears, and Brienne’s snuffling guffaw is the best sound he’s ever heard.


	9. we will take the best parts of ourselves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snapshots from the year after the breach is sealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Team... this is late! And that's because in the edit, I noticed something missing and wanted to make sure it stopped being missing. And then this chapter ballooned from around 4.5K to around 9.5K and still there was still stuff I deleted! It is heavily self indulgent, pretty shmoopy much of the time, and honestly, probably I should have made this a stand-alone bonus one-shot, but we're here now, and I very much hope you enjoy.
> 
> Thanks as always to C for all her cheerleading, support, willingness to answer the most random of questions and concerns, and general sparkling spectacularness over the course of this fic. ♥
> 
> General content warnings for grief, and Cersei makes an appearance in this chapter. I'll remind that there's no incest in this fic, and her sections are not fraught, but flagging just in case <3

_Snapshots from the year after the breach is sealed_

She wakes the morning after they seal the breach, a little disorientated, to fluorescents at half-strength, and Jaime asleep on her shoulder. They’re in the infirmary, empty now but for they two. He had refused to leave her side, declining with increasingly strained politeness as various medical personnel recommended he leave to get rest himself. Once the lights had been lowered, he had maneuvered another bed up against hers, elevating the top to match exactly, and she had fallen asleep with his hand clasped in hers.

Pia releases her mid-day, and now finally back in her quarters, she feels a little guilty that Jaime has followed her. She admits to herself, her eyes prickling, that she wants him to stay. There’s a small, vulnerable part of her that she doesn’t want to look at too closely, which wants him never to leave. She is tired, and her body is sore, and she feels somehow tremulous in their victory — it feels somehow unreal, like any moment someone might burst in to say she had actually failed. That the report was some false positive. She’s so used to failure that success is as sweet as it seems treacherous. And the spectre of the five Kaiju they fought over the last three days hovers at the edge of her mind in a way they never had before. Jaime, though. To her, Jaime feels safe and solid. He doesn’t doubt their success, doesn’t doubt her abilities, and the one time she had voiced her worries, whispered into the silence of the middle of the night, he had looked her directly in the eyes and said firmly, “It’s over, Brienne. You finished it.”

He’s in the bathroom now, brushing his teeth with a brush he’d fetched from his own quarters. He had helped her change into a loose t-shirt and shorts, and he tutted when she tried to get awkwardly into bed, going to far as to lift the blanket for her. Distantly, she knows some part of her, maybe a past part of her, would be annoyed, but mostly she just feels grateful.

She watches him as he spits, gurgles. Her heart feels strange in her chest: like it’s bigger somehow, or more full, and is locked in a contest she doesn’t fully understand with the anxiety twisting her gut.

He flicks off the light and pads towards her, and Brienne blurts quietly, “You don’t have to stay.” Jaime doesn’t stop, but there’s a flash of panic on his face before he smooths the look into incredulity, and she immediately wants to take the words back. The way he had cried in the pod, held her as they waited… She imagines being in his place, thinking him dead, and she gulps against a surge of terror. She really, really doesn’t want him to go, but also she will be fine, and she doesn’t want him to think he _must_ stay. She continues, “I know you must have been worried but —”

“Shut up, Starch,” he says, but fondly, in a way that seems to wrap cozy around her. She expects him to crawl under the covers, lay flat beside her, but instead he slips in behind. He presses his mouth to her shoulder, says, “Are you comfortable on your side like this?”

Again, she thinks she ought to be annoyed by the doting way he’s behaving but instead, her throat closes, and she only manages a nod. He murmurs, “Good,” and then, with blatant care to her broken ribs, his hand wraps over her waist, slips up under the hem of her top to press his palm, hot and soothing, against her abdomen. He scoots closer, tucks his knees behind hers and tangles their feet together. She gulps in a breath, overwhelmed and grateful, and how could her heart _hurt_ from this? She senses as Jaime hesitates as though he can feel her thoughts, and maybe he can: those insights from the drift will linger, will redouble themselves the longer they — the more they — if they continue to —

 _Gods_ , she hopes they continue to.

He kisses the bare skin at the nape of her neck. “Okay?” he whispers.

She takes stock. Has never in her life been held this way. Had never — the feeling is _safe_. She feels so _safe_. Protected. _Wanted_. She closes her eyes as they start to burn, and her heart is in her throat as she affirms, “Okay.” It comes out a bit of a croak, but Jaime only hums approvingly, and snuggles closer.

* * *

“You would have hated it,” Jaime says, shucking his suit jacket. Brienne recoils slightly where she sits stiffly by his desk. When she frowns at him like he might be mad, he frowns back, and it’s only after a moment that his words catch up with him. He rolls his eyes. “Not the funeral. The funeral was —” _Sad_. Unbelievably sad in ways he had not anticipated. It had been filled mostly with strangers, people grieving a hero who had given his life for them, and there was barely anyone there for Hyle Hunt himself. In many ways, Hunt did it to himself, Jaime knows. But it had still pierced him; made him think of another life, one he might have lived had he not found a place in the Jaeger program, when only his siblings might have attended his funeral, had he been lucky enough then to pass first. It’s a maudlin thought he doesn’t care for, and he shakes it off.

But Arya had taken it hard; had been silent and motionless in a way Jaime had never seen for the entire ride back to the Shatterdome, and had vanished as soon as they arrived.

Brienne doesn’t need to know any of that, though. Not right now. Her feelings about Hunt are complicated enough. He thinks of the guilty crease in her forehead, the way she had worried at her lip, when he had said good-bye that morning.

He clears his throat. “The funeral was a funeral. No, I meant beforehand and afterward. There were members of the public in attendance, and they were…” He hesitates, tries to land on a word that doesn’t make him want to punch something. Lands on, “Fawning,” and still it tastes sour.

“Oh,” Brienne says. Her mouth turns down, a mirror of his own distaste. “They can be like that.”

“It’s awful,” he says forcefully.

“Awful,” she agrees. Their eyes meet, and she smiles, understanding and a little rueful, and all at once, he’s so ferociously thankful she’s alive. There had been a chance he would have to attend _her_ funeral, the public lining up as though they’d known her, and he can’t bear it.

He strides to her, kneels and wraps his arms around her, tightening his hold carefully, mindful of her injuries. She doesn’t say anything, only raises her arms to hug him back. She’s steady in his hold: the hard planes of her muscles obvious, her breathing even and deep, and he lays his ear against the flat of her shoulder, listens to her strong heart beat. After a moment, she flicks at the collar of his dress shirt, cranes her head to blow into his ear, tickling him, and Jaime chuckles, perhaps a little wetly, and pulls away.

He changes quickly, out of the suit and into something more comfortable. He’s particular about choosing a long-sleeved shirt, and as he plunks himself down on the desk beside her, he slowly rolls the sleeves up in a way he knows she finds distracting. Rewarded, her cheeks go a little pink, her mouth parts, and she eventually looks up at him accusingly. He laughs, leans down and plants a hand on the arm of the chair before diving in for a quick kiss. He pulls back just enough to lick the tip of her nose before straightening again. She scowls at him as she wipes her nose, but there’s a tremble at the corner of her mouth he knows is the threat of a smile, and Jaime offers his most charming smile in return, enjoying her going a little pink again.

He says, “What are we doing to alleviate your boredom today?”

“They’re hosting a special footie match at the Rosby FC Stadium…” Her mouth quirks and Jaime smirks. “You mean, because we destroyed the KL Stadium. I remember. Go on.”

Her brows drop but she continues, “Do you reckon we could get tickets?”

She looks a little nervous, but also eager and hopeful, and affection blossoms in his chest. He’s just so very fond of her. He nods then says wryly, “There may be one advantage to those fawning people we discussed earlier…”

* * *

Loras’s funeral is a private affair. There are, of course, still crowds outside, but security ensure none can get closer than the boundaries of the cemetery. Brienne is grateful for it. Olenna could be ostentatious, but if there is anyone who despises false displays more than Olenna, Brienne doesn’t know them. It isn’t entirely fair to name the feelings of the people false, Brienne knows. Their emotions are true, if perhaps misplaced. There is a difference between the devastation of those who _know_ , and a generalized sense of remorse, a channel for collective and compounded grief that cannot be otherwise expressed.

She flanks the doors to the Tyrell crypt with Jaime, the other guests finding space outwards through the cemetery from there. Inside are the Tyrell family: Olenna, Margaery and Mace, Loras and Margaery’s father. Stannis Baratheon, too, in honour of Renly. Brienne had stiffened, seeing him. But Stannis had walked to her and taken her hand. It had been an awkward greeting, one he seemed as uncomfortable with as she, but she recognized his sincerity in the furrow of his brow, some fondly amused wisp from Renly’s memories. She blinked back tears as he released her to duck inside.

A wind picks up midway through the ceremony. It cools the wet tracks of her tears on her cheeks. She hasn’t prayed to the gods since childhood, and even then mostly because the Septa made all the children pray in their weekly faith lessons. Brienne watches the wind pluck at the grass growing between the slabs of the stone path, and hopes desperately that Loras is at peace. With Renly, somewhere, if the universe is kind.

* * *

It takes longer than Jaime expects for Brienne’s anxieties to catch up. He had felt them, sometimes, trembling at the edge of certain interactions. He understands. Partly thanks to the drift knowledge he still finds himself shuffling through at strange times: Brienne makes some expression he hasn’t actually witnessed yet, but understands implicitly. Or she starts to tell a story and he already knows the end. Or he wakes from dreams of the North, of wearing layer upon layer of smothering clothes, of cold fingers gripping tight to heat packs, of watching desperately grateful people carry too-few belongings into just-finished homes, feeling hollow and unmoored and alone. He never tells Brienne about those dreams, but he thinks she knows something of them, for the way he hugs her a little tighter, kisses her a little deeper, after.

It’s a shared experience. Brienne smiles before he reaches the punchline of a joke he’s never told her. Or she smooths her hand down his back, just as he likes, when something makes his muscles knot in stress. Or the one time she wakes from a nightmare, sobbing that it had been Tyrion and Cersei lost this time, that she’s so sorry for not being able to protect them. That had taken the air from his lungs, turned his stomach to stone, and her tears had broken his heart.

But it isn’t just the drift. He’s been told he is intense: still, sometimes, Addam tilts his head at Jaime and says, not unkindly, “You feel too strongly.” Tyrion, too, used to advise Jaime to protect his heart. That had been before everything with Aerys, when Jaime had started doing exactly that. Mostly. Olenna, Arya, Elia, light like candles in his mind; Brienne, the bonfire beside them.

This is different though. It still hurts, but it’s clear Brienne is more afraid of herself than of him. That he might one day wake up and realize she had somehow deceived him. It won’t happen; Brienne may be stubborn, but he is not wrong.

Still. In the middle of their fourth argument of the week, he throws up his hands. “Date nights,” he says loudly.

Brienne freezes, looks at him and somehow manages to be both scowling and wide-eyed. “What?”

“I suggest,” he articulates through grit teeth, “That we have date nights.”

“What are — What are _date nights_?” She clutches at her ribs, a new protective impulse that always sends Jaime back to his terror that day on the ocean when he had believed her dead. He swallows against the rising nausea and focuses on her face. Her marvellous, cherished, and currently mistrustful, and therefore _annoying_ , face.

“Date nights are when we have dedicated time together — I know, I _know_. We spend a great deal of time together as it is. Perhaps we should stop that.” Her distrust morphs to alarm and Jaime sighs. “Starch. I’m trying to meet you halfway. You’re worried that I’ll one day realize you’re something that you aren’t. That I’ll up and go.”

“I don’t —”

“Really,” he says flatly. “What is it, then? You don’t want me?” He means to say it flippantly, but there’s a tremble of honestly that skids rough up his throat and catches the last two words dry on his tongue. He had been so focused on her feelings, he hadn’t noticed anxieties of his own: if he thinks on it, likely many of their arguments have been his, not hers. Suddenly his breathing is shallow and he waits with his heart in his throat.

“No,” she says, and Jaime jolts, a rushing in his ears as he turns to ice. She throws her hands up, palms forward, winces as she wrenches her ribs. She says urgently, “I mean, I do. I do — want you. But I’m not… Jaime. Gods. I don’t deserve —”

“Don’t you _dare_ finish that sentence,” he snarls. He points at her. Enunciates, “I would rather you throw me over than you finish that _godsdamned lie._ ”

She scowls at him, remorse and anger warring on her face until finally she takes a shuddering breath and looks away. Quietly she says, “Tell me more about date nights.”

Eventually they agree. Not so much _date night_ as it is _date time_. Three times a week they will make time for one another. Deliberate time, to get to know each other, outside and away from the drift. It’s a strange arrangement because they still sleep in the same bed. The one night they had been apart since sealing the breach had been because Jaime had gone with Tyrion to the reopening of some bar. Jaime arrived back late, hadn’t wanted to disturb Brienne and then hadn’t slept at all, restless through the night, his heart racing as his thoughts spiralled, lying to him that somehow Brienne might not be there come morning.

It was irrational, he had told himself over and over, but it hadn’t helped. He had subsequently spoken it through with Davos for their next two sessions. Still, the thought of not having her enormous and warm beside him was making his hands clammy, and so he asked. Asked whether they might still share the same bed, and Brienne’s agreement had been so swift and so soft, accompanied by such a forceful slump of relief that Jaime’s embarrassment had been washed aside.

* * *

The third time it’s Brienne’s turn to plan their date, she arranges that they have the training room to themselves, and Jaime’s eyes light when he realizes where they’re going. The desire to touch him is ever present now. And it’s easy, in the privacy of her quarters, or his. Or occasionally when they work together in Olenna’s office. Or beneath the table in the mess hall. But increasingly… Increasingly she wants to be more bold. And she isn’t used to this — to not trying to keep what’s precious to her hidden within herself, but she’s trying, because she knows it’s important to him, and when she dares to look more closely at her own heart, she admits that it’s important to her, too. So she musters her bravery now, and takes his hand to pull him to a stop. He looks at her curiously, and right in the middle of the corridor, where anyone might happen upon them, she tugs him into her and kisses him soundly.

He makes a startled sound against her mouth, but then his arm is around her back and he’s responding in kind, and _oh_.

Brienne releases him, and Jaime has a stunned look to him, twin spots of colour high on his cheeks, and she swallows back a surge of warmth that would lead them off course, to her quarters, and at long last back into bed. But their dates have become precious times for them, and it’s too early to steer them astray, so she only bites her lip, and says, “Okay?”

Jaime’s smile is bright and dopey and makes her stomach flutter and his voice is a little rough with something she can’t read when he affirms, “Okay.”

It’s their first spar since before the breach was sealed, her ribs finally healed. She feels more herself than she has in weeks: more than a little rusty in her movements, maybe, but she likes the way her muscles work, that they strain pleasantly. Her body finally cooperating in a way that’s familiar at last. Jaime coaches her through, watching her closely, and laughingly denies he’s holding back the first time she lays him flat.

She can’t name why the energy changes between them, but it does. Maybe it was her thoughts earlier, or maybe it was just time. But one moment, Jaime is leaning on his staff, gesturing to her ankle, encouraging her to shift her weight through the motion. The next, she’s dropping her own staff, cupping his cheeks in her hands as she falls into him, filling with a clamorous _want_ as he catches her, wraps his arms around her, opens his mouth to her and meets her urgency with only a half startled grunt.

Their first spar since the breach was sealed then also becomes their first fuck since the breach was sealed, and also the first ever time Brienne pursues a fantasy. They stumble together into one of the changing rooms, slamming the lock behind them. They hurriedly shuck their trousers, their underwear, and Jaime pushes her against the wall, slipping a hand quick between her thighs. She whimpers and he groans to find her so wet, and when he pulls a condom from his pocket, she whispers, "May I —" he growls, "Yes." Her fingers tremble as she rolls it over him, Jaime gasping, making her shiver, his hands tightening on her hips. Then she's hitching a leg around his waist as he clutches hard at her thigh, her other foot still braced on the cold tile of the floor. She cries out in relief when he thrusts inside, and Jaime kisses her, sloppy and deep and _perfect_. She wraps her arms around him — needs him, needs him _close_ — and she pours the feeling into her kiss until they’re moving together, frantic in the cramped space.

Jaime comes first, groaning into her mouth as he shudders through it. When he makes to drop to his knees, Brienne stops him, needs the solid mass of him hot against her. She drags his head back to hers, kissing him demandingly, guiding his hand to her cunt. He knows her, knows just what to do, and she rides his hand, making her arch, and whine, and gasp around his tongue, pleasure spiralling to light through her limbs, tightening her centre, and when she’s quaking and close, Jaime breaks their kiss, husks into her ear, “ _Anyone might catch us here, Brienne_ ,” and her leg gives out, Jaime catching her as she bites his shoulder to keep from shouting as her orgasm sets her alight.

* * *

Cersei visits. They’d been in touch, of course: Jaime trades emails with her regularly and there’s the occasional text message. Still, he’s oddly hurt that it takes her months to make the trip. Admittedly, she had asked him to visit Lannisport the day the breach was sealed, an email he hadn’t picked up until the early hours after Brienne had fallen asleep, and he tried to distract himself from the images in his head of her apparently lifeless body and the panicked thoughts that accompanied them. It had comforted him, to hear from Cersei then, though he had deferred. There had been no question of him leaving Brienne in the days after the mission, and then he became busy in King’s Landing, part of the small team supporting Olenna in the shutting down of the Jaeger program.

But. He understands enough of the workings of Lannister Corp that he knows Cersei could have arranged a trip much earlier. When she’s there in front of him, though, it’s hard to hold onto his hurt. He hugs her tightly, only letting go when she squirms and pushes him away. And she has tried, he can see, dressing in a mostly appropriate suit for the occasion. Surrounded by the make-do bunker aesthetics of the Shatterdome though, she looks uncomfortable, clutching her purse between fingers white with tension. So Jaime takes her to the areas he knows she’ll find as close to palatable as possible.

When they accidentally bump into Tyrion, the resulting trade of barbs beneath false pleasantries is enough to make him feel exhausted, long for Brienne so forcefully he nearly excuses himself to hide under the covers of Brienne’s bed until she returns from seeing Arya off at the train station.

The glance Cersei gives him, expression pleasant but eyes pleading, shores him up. He cuts Tyrion off mid-sentence, voice fond in whatever joke he makes to soothe, and he leads her onwards.

They reach the Jaeger hangar bays, all empty now. Cersei is silent, head tipped back, looking up at the former berth which held Oathkeeper for so long. His heart twists as he looks himself, the empty brackets and faded oil stains on the floor pass over the hollow in his chest like a cold breeze over raw skin. He’s spoken of it with Brienne, the way Oathkeeper’s loss feels somehow like the loss of a friend. He doesn’t think Cersei would understand.

But she turns to him, wariness in the downward pull of her mouth. “It’s… sad,” she says, haltingly, and she huffs when Jaime only blinks at her. “I saw on the news, obviously.” This, more brusk, and unusually unclear for Cersei. She tries again, “I’m sorry I never saw your… Jaeger. In person.”

Jaime swallows against emotion which grips his throat. He nods. “I’m sorry you didn’t see Oathkeeper,” he manages, and Cersei looks thoughtful. She says, “Oathkeeper. Old fashioned,” and Jaime tamps down his immediate exasperation. Then she looks away, says, “Fitting though. For its pilot.”

She looks so uncomfortable with the compliment that he smiles at her when her eyes flick back towards him. She rolls her eyes, and he can’t help but hug her, laughing when she sighs irritably and pats his back uneasily in turn.

* * *

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Tyrion asks, leading Brienne through the reception.

Brienne waits until he tips his head up to look at her before rolling her eyes. Tyrion may have his feelings, but lunch was hardly a challenge. Really, Brienne ought to have made the arrangements herself, but she hadn’t had the information she needed and wanted to keep it from Jaime — just in case she was declined, and in the more likely event that she wasn’t, to ensure the surprise — so had enlisted Tyrion’s help.

He shrugs at her now, slowing as they reach the restaurant. He gestures her through and says, “If you need a quick exit, just text me the word _Mistake_ and I’ll phone with a fake emergency.”

Brienne says fondly, “Piss off.” Tyrion laughs, as she knew he would, and she makes her way into the restaurant, spotting Cersei immediately. They’d met the previous night, Jaime’s hand holding almost painfully onto hers under the table of the mess hall where Cersei had done her best to look at ease. Cersei had been no surprise to her; a little more stiff than she had expected, but there was a truth to her strain which was missing from most of the impressions Brienne had from the drift.

Cersei is sipping at a glass of water now, watching out the high windows. Jaime’s twin is like him in some ways: she wears her tension as he does. But a flicker in her mind tells her Cersei doesn’t like it addressed the way Jaime does: she might take a caustic comment, which Brienne will not do, or benign neutrality, which Brienne can manage. She takes a breath and walks to their table.

“Hello, Cersei.”

Cersei turns, and smiles, a little too broad. “Brienne... It’s good to see you again. How are you?”

It’s towards the end of their meal that Cersei eyes Brienne over the top of her glass and says casually, “You love him,” and it steals Brienne’s breath.

It isn’t that she hasn’t considered — Jaime has been rooted in her heart since nearly the beginning, and recently she has this feeling, always present but only sometimes acknowledged: it fills her and she glows with it, and it is new and she doesn’t know it exactly, so she’s been taking her time with it, breathing a little life into it whenever she can, welcoming as it kindles the brighter… But of course, _of course_ , it’s love. She loves him. Of course she does. How could she ever not?

Cersei smiles. Brienne is struck by their similarity then. It’s a slightly wry smile that Jaime hasn’t used in months, the one for when he’s being sincere, but doesn’t want anyone to notice. Cersei says, “Ah, you haven’t told him, yet. Well. I won’t say anything.” She swirls her water, glances into it. “He deserves it. And I think…” Her eyes flash to Brienne, darting back to her water again. She lifts one shoulder and drops it, sending a hand in an elegant swoop before turning the conversation to something else.

Brienne isn’t sure, but she thinks that means Cersei approves, and a shadow of nerves she hadn’t realized had been hovering at the edge of her mind dissipates.

* * *

Jaime knocks on her door, as though he isn’t perfectly capable of opening the lock on his own, a luxury he still finds courses pleasingly through him each time he does it. Brienne opens the door, and the frown he’d known she would wear that he hasn’t just _come in_ wobbles, and then she’s smiling at him. It’s a smile, he’s realized recently, that is just for him. It starts as the slightest of curves, she bites the inside of her bottom lip, and then her face will colour, a splash of a blush that brightens her eyes, and by the time he’s retrieved himself from their astonishing depths, her teeth are peeking out from between pink lips, the corners of her eyes creasing.

He loves her. He’s only acknowledged it recently, though he’s had the certainty living in his chest for a while now.

He isn’t usually reticent, but with this, he likes that it’s a secret just for now. That he can be with her and think, _I love you_ , and it just settles, warmer and bigger, with each repetition. Sometimes Brienne catches something in his expression: her eyes go a little wide, her breath will catch, and there will be a moment, a beat, where her face shines with the knowledge and reflects it back.

Like now. She’s still smiling, her breath has gone more shallow. If they had nowhere to be, he might move into her, shuffle her back… But they do. So he swallows and he grins. “I hope you’ll forgive me,” and he delights when her eyes narrow and her mouth flattens into a thin line.

“Why?” she asks warily.

“I asked Olenna to join us. I know it’s our date night, but —”

“No,” she says, and she smiles at him again. _Love. I love you._ “That’s — that’s good.” Margaery had left two months ago, and the Shatterdome is almost eerie in how empty it is. Olenna is strong, and stalwart, and the most stable person he knows, and still he sometimes catches her gaze unfocused, a downward tick to her mouth that he doesn’t know. They haven’t discussed it, he and Brienne, but she’s taken to eating lunch in Olenna’s office.

“Good,” he says, then extends his hand. “Reservations in fifteen. The best Dothraki in King’s Landing.” She links their fingers together, her palm cool against his, her fingers long across the back of his hand. She turns to close the door, and he raises their hands to brush his lips over her knuckles, watching the back of her neck go red.

* * *

It’s — well it is her fault. She’s turned sullen and silent, and she knows Jaime doesn’t understand that response, that it aggravates him at best and scrapes at his own insecurities at worse. She can almost hear Davos’ voice in her head, patient and right and infuriating, “Take your time to find the words you need.”

But words have never been Brienne’s forte and Jaime is fast with them, and it’s irrational, she knows it’s fucking irrational and that it isn’t fair but she’s been trying for _months_ , she has. They’d spoken about it, she and Jaime, ages ago. They couldn’t rely on the drift, she told him. He had agreed. Said they’d learn together.

And with one stupid sentence, that shouldn’t fucking bother her, it had become too much, and she had shut down. For two days.

Jaime starts belting out the tenth annoying pop hit of the day and she snaps.

“Will you _stop singing?_ ”

Not to be outdone, Jaime retorts, “Will you tell me what I’ve done?”

She juts her chin forward, grinds her teeth, and watches as a flash of pain crosses his face before his own irritation reasserts itself and he opens his mouth to start annoying pop hit number eleven, when Brienne finally says, “Fine.”

The tension thickens before Brienne forces herself to lower her shoulders, to unlock her jaw. She debates sitting, thinks it would be better to stand, and crosses her arms over her chest. She can sense Jaime getting increasingly impatient, can almost hear his mental countdown to when he’ll start singing again, and forces herself to speak. It’s halting, and frustration, humiliation, burns in her stomach, in her chest, but she just speaks one word after the other and eventually they form a sentence.

“You said, _That’s one for the future._ ”

Jaime blinks at her, squints like he’s trying to find the hidden meaning, then passes a hand down his face. “You’ll have to give me more than that, Starch —“

“ _Don’t_ call me that.”

Instantly she regrets it: Jaime looks at her, wounded, before he strives for an expression more neutral. Truthfully, she’s come to like the nickname. Had felt through the drift how steeped it was in affection, and every time he says it, she remembers that undeniable emotion behind it and it wraps snugly around her. She isn’t usually one to lash out — but then, she also isn’t usually one to have someone this close, to know her so well, and yet somehow not well enough.

Gods, she’s awful. _This is awful_.

Jaime makes it worse. To his credit and her increasing shame, he raises his hands in surrender and says carefully, “All right. Okay. I won’t use — that name. I still need... I don’t understand.”

“Jaime —” she tries, sounds too angry and stops herself. Takes a shuddering breath. Haltingly, she says, “I don’t. Know. What. The future — is.”

“Oh,” he breathes. His expression turns… he’s being so _kind_. When people are kind, it feels tenuous. And Jaime can also be so childish — who _sings_ to get their _way,_ for fuck’s sake? — but he’s also honest. And Brienne… Brienne faces her challenges. And for Jaime. Oh, but she loves Jaime. For Jaime, anything.

It comes out in pieces. The first piece: the Starks had been generous, but she had been in limbo in the North all those years, the barrenness of the land matching the desolate feelings in her heart, the blankness in her mind when she considered anything beyond the next day, and from the look on his face when she finishes speaking, he knows. She had wondered. Sometimes his nightmares, and the things he would mutter as he came out of them… If she dreams of parts of him, surely he must dream of parts of her, too. That’s shattering in a way she had deliberately not been thinking about, and she starts to cry. She’s grateful that it’s at least small tears, not the sobs she feels caught in her chest. But Jaime watches her, looking wretched and helpless, so she tries to pull herself together.

Instead, the caught sobs rush up to wrench from her throat. She wraps an arm around her middle to stop herself heaving, tries to catch her breath, tries to clear her eyes, but she fails, she _fails_ , and _she can’t stop crying_. The bed depresses beside her, then Jaime, choked, saying, “Can I — Do you mind if I — hold you?” She nods, and his arms are around her. It takes time to find calm: she clutches at his shirt and gasps apologies he immediately accepts, murmuring over and over that she isn’t alone, that he’s here.

Eventually she’s hiccuping through the end of it, mortification starting to creep into her gut, until she realizes Jaime is crying, too.

“Jaime?”

He groans into her shoulder, “I thought you’d be the crier between us for once,” and she can’t help but laugh, wet and maybe still a little crying. She squirms in his hold and pulls him closer. He rests his head on her shoulder and starts to speak quietly, reassuring her, reminding her of the dark days he spent in the Service. That he understands. That there’s no shame. She half-believes him, only because he’s right that there’s no shame to his past, so perhaps it’s true for her as well.

She misses the drift, abruptly, in a way which leaves her breathless. She misses the comforting cocoon of Oathkeeper’s cockpit, a familiar and safe humming backdrop as they connected, and it was easy — so easy, in the drift, with Oathkeeper grounding them both.

Eventually, they pull apart. Brienne keeps her knee pressed close to Jaime’s thigh, his hand wrapped over hers. She gives the next piece. Returning to the Jaeger program for those brief days, finding _him_ , it had opened the world again in ways she hadn’t thought possible. It had been so short. Then Olenna had given her a role as they brought the program to a close. Now that work was nearing its end, and then… The last piece.

“What matches it? What in the world matches piloting a Jaeger?” she asks. Her voice cracks, and grief for Oathkeeper pierces her heart, grips her chest.

Jaime squeezes her hand and says, “I miss it, too.” Then he takes a deep breath. “I don’t know. I don’t know what matches it. Honestly, Sta — Brienne, I’m… worried, too.” Brienne gulps at this, and Jaime’s throat ticks. His expression changes, and she knows that look. He’s given it to her so many times, the one that leads to him extending out his hand to her, creating a path for them both.

As he takes a breath, she gestures for him to stop. And he does. There’s a flicker of worry on his face, but when she asks, he can be patient. This, she needs to take with two hands. She wants to curl in on herself, pull away from him, as terror grips her, makes her blood run cold, her fingers feeling like ice in the fire hot heat of Jaime’s hands. But she can’t forever let him be taking the chances between them, leading the way for them both. She breathes through the fear. “Will you,” her tongue sticks, she swallows painfully. “Will you — help… me?”

The rush of breath from Jaime puts some heat back into her veins. He starts to respond, but she finds she has more to say. “I’m not looking for answers,” she says quickly. “But… support. And,” she winces. “Space. Sometimes.” Tilts her head and quirks her mouth apologetically. “And. And that you. Let me…” her words fail her and she just looks at him, turns her hand in the shelter he’s made of his, and presses their palms together. She hopes, _hopes_ her expression conveys it. She just very much wants to support him, too.

“I think I can manage that,” he says, serious, and a little hoarse.

Relief floods her, leaving her warm and exhausted in its wake. She breathes out a heavy, “Thank you,” and Jaime nods, tightens his hold on her hand. Then cocks his head.

“Does that mean you didn’t like my singing?” he asks, dryly.

Brienne smiles, because he wants her to, and actually now she isn’t so furious, she thinks his voice isn’t half bad. She shakes her head. “I’m only saying this once,” she says warningly, and immediately his eyes sparkle at her. He really is far too handsome, far too adorable, and she is far too worn out to resist. She draws a deep breath and says, “You didn’t sound… so bad.”

“Gods,” he says, letting go of her hand to dramatically clutch at his chest. “You liked my singing.”

“I didn’t say _that_ ,” she huffs.

“Too late to deny it,” he says imperiously. “And you don’t have to ask. I will absolutely greet you every morning with a song.”

Brienne flops back on the bed, covers her face and starts laughing deliriously. Jaime lands beside her with a bounce, and when she peeks from between her fingers, he’s propped his head up on his fist, and is looking thoughtfully to the ceiling. “Maybe I’ll do some research into old songs. I remember some could be quite raunchy. There’s one about a bear, I’m sure.”

“ _Don’t_.”

He smirks at her and says, “But how else will I guarantee that incredible red you turn when I do something, and you’re made simultaneously embarrassed and horny?”

She groans, then mumbles into her palms, “Simply by existing, I imagine.”

Jaime laughs, then. Her favourite laugh of his: rich, and loud, and strong. It shakes the mattress between them, and she joins him, watching his face glow.

When they quiet, he looks at her from under his lashes, vulnerable in a way she’s rarely seen. She drops her hands from her face, and turns her head to look at him properly. His fingers smooth the band of her trousers and he says quietly, “Do you really want me to stop calling you Starch?”

Her cheeks heat, and her stomach clenches with guilt. “No,” she whispers. “I… I like it. But,” she says quickly as he starts to smirk at her again. “Maybe not in the middle of an argument.”

“All right, Starch,” he agrees. Then grins at her when she rolls her eyes, and that feeling takes her again: breathtaking and blazing and utterly impossible, and as Jaime falls over her, murmuring _Starch_ over and over as he nuzzles across her chest, she slips her fingers into his hair and thinks she might tell him one day soon.

* * *

Jaime officially moves his things into Brienne’s quarters. It’s really more a formality than anything at this point, but it still feels somehow momentous.

She’s grumbling about something — truthfully he’s only been half listening, enjoying the domesticity of rearranging the meagre storage space available in the Shatterdome quarters to make space for his things alongside hers. She has too many socks, he thinks dryly, trying to shove them aside to make room for his in the drawer he deems an arbitrary choice for the role. He glances at her just as she happens to wrinkle her nose, though, and it’s an expression he’s never seen: it ticks to twist her mouth, tugs at the scar on her cheek, and she’s so adorable that it fills him, buoys up through his chest until he feels he’s near floating with it, and he interrupts her mid-sentence to blurt, “I love you.”

Her face goes still with shock, and he swallows thickly, says quickly, “You don’t — it’s not conditional. I just wanted you to know.”

“I —” she stops. Bites her lip, then reaches a hand to him. Jaime takes it and, his heart pounding in his chest, he laces their fingers together. Remembers doing this, a lifetime ago, sitting on a platform and looking on Oathkeeper, sharing it as theirs, as its heart bathed them in soft light. Her fingers tighten around his, and Jaime refocuses, meeting her earnest, wide eyes. “I love you, too,” she says, and it’s so quiet he nearly misses it, but it’s also the loudest thing he’s ever felt and they’re kissing and he doesn’t know how it happens, but by the time they’re getting dressed again, his socks have ended up everywhere.

* * *

“For our date,” Jaime says slowly, incredulously, and even so, the way he says the word sends curls of delight through her, nearly a year later. “You’re taking me to... a City Council meeting...”

They’re standing at the back of the school gymnasium, the makeshift answer as City Hall is being rebuilt, and Brienne shushes him. “There’s something important on the agenda.”

“Well. I haven’t seen an agenda,” Jaime whispers back, and he snakes a hand into the back pocket of her jeans to squeeze her arse and Brienne jolts as Jaime snickers, and she raises her eyes to the gods in a bid for patience.

“Pay attention,” she hisses, and resolutely does not miss the pressure of his hand on her arse when he pulls it away to huffily cross his arms over his chest.

In fairness to Jaime, it is dreadfully dull. The important item is about halfway through, and as far as Brienne can tell, the first part of the agenda is entirely made up of the most dry subject matters facing the reconstruction of King’s Landing. She supposes that she ought to alerted them that she and Jaime would be in attendance, but she had wanted the moment to be just for they two. If they were expected, they would have to stay for the duration, there might be some awful ceremony, or worse, they’d be up there on that small stage alongside the rest of the Council. And the surprise might have been spoiled.

Still, as minute forty-three ticks by, Brienne wonders again if she ought to have done this differently. They’re both leaning back against the wall, Jaime skimming through his phone while Brienne forces herself to pay attention, when finally, _finally_ , the Mayor says, “Next, a final vote on the plans for the new library.”

“Jaime,” she breathes, but he’s already looking sharper, his eyes trained on the Mayor, slipping his phone into his pocket.

“Really, this vote is a formality,” the Mayor drones, and Brienne really wishes he sounded less bored for something so important. “However, Ms Stone will remind the Council and any others in attendance who are not already aware of the plans.”

“Thank you, Mayor.” The woman who speaks is the youngest there, and she shuffles nervously through a set of notes. Brienne hazards a glance at Jaime, whose brow has furrowed in the way she knows is impatience. She reaches out to him, immediately he links his hand with hers.

“Right. The proposed plan before the Council is the rebuilding of the public library which was destroyed during the Kaiju attack late last year. Lannister Corporation CEO Cersei Lannister has committed the funds for construction, the hiring of an architect, and the required amount needed to restock shelves upon completion of construction. In exchange for this commitment, Ms Lannister requests only that the library be named for the services of her brother, Jaime Lannister, a Jaeger pilot whose contributions ended the Kaiju wars. The Lannister Public Library.”

“Brienne,” he breathes. Jaime taps his fingers across the back of her hand, and Brienne swallows before looking at him. Her heart thumps at the expression he wears, disbelieving, his eyes wet. She thinks he’s so beautiful, always and particularly when his face is open this way, and she — she just loves him so very much. Roughly, he says, “I can’t believe you did this.”

“It was — Cersei liked the idea. She — she really went in on it.”

Jaime tilts his head, blinks a few times, clearing his eyes. “She wanted to capitalize on the situation,” he finally suggests, smile a little wry.

“She wanted to honour her brother,” Brienne asserts, setting her chin. He’s right, but so is she, and she’ll be damned if she gives in on this. She can’t forget Cersei’s expression when she had suggested this: a glimmer of hope on her face, so reminiscent of Jaime, and a little pained, perhaps, that she hadn’t known his feelings about the library. For her part, Brienne wants him to never doubt he is loved, is important, is… everything. She says, “Okay?”

His smile wavers, then it becomes the one that’s just for her. It’s at his eyes first: the precious crinkling at the corners which she loves, the green depths set alight. The rounds of his cheeks rise, his mouth curving, and it’s unusual for Jaime, but his lips stay nearly sealed, just the slightest of parts, and there’s this teasing tension at the edges, like he’s sitting on some joy that’s fit to burst from him should he open his mouth too wide.

It fills her then, her love for him. Her heart pulses, warm and ticklish, sending spirals of it through her body, to light across her skin until the only thing she can do is reach for him, press her palm to the side of his face. Jaime leans into her touch, the brush of his stubble familiar and cherished, and Brienne moves in to kiss him, just lightly, just to try to release some more of the feeling, like it might pass through touch.

She pulls away, and after a moment, he says, “Okay,” and kisses her scarred cheek. “It’s going to be incredibly ostentatious, you know. Really, an obnoxiously ostentatious building. Gold everywhere. Lions, probably. Just ungodsly amounts of effort in making it thoroughly _Lannister_.” His smile is gone but he still sounds pleased, amused, and so Brienne only shrugs.

She says, “That’s all right.”

* * *

They’re due to leave the Shatterdome for the last time tomorrow, and head North to visit the Starks. Really, he’s not sure how he feels about that part of things, but he is just about ready to say good-bye to this place. He finishes brushing his teeth, and puts his toothbrush into his travel bag. Smirks, flicks Brienne’s so it no longer rests at a perfect angle to the edge of the counter. When he emerges from the bathroom, Brienne is standing, looking morosely at her bag. There is time for that, but not tonight.

He slings his arms around her middle, then pulls her to the bed. She lands with a yelp and a " _Jaime,_ " he reads as mostly amused, and so he follows quickly after her, caging her between his arms until he manages to thrust his head up under the hem of her shirt, snuffling across her few ticklish spots until she’s writhing with the quiet huffing sounds he now recognizes as giggles.

It isn’t long then for them to make a minor mess of the room, their sleep clothes thrown everywhere. Her hands are all over him, and she laughs as they roll across the bed. It’s unacceptable, really, that she’s managing more touching than he is. Jaime redoubles his efforts, makes a competition of it, and before long they’re both panting, and groaning, and she’s beneath him and needing, but he wants her above him and taking.

Jaime thrusts against her, shivering as his cock slides between the wet heat of her folds and she whimpers. He gasps, “Ride me. Like the first time. In this bed.”

Brienne nods haltingly, somehow mottling red despite the fact they’ve fucked so many marvellous times since then, including and particularly like that, and in one swift motion he’s on his back and Brienne is glorious above him.

He remembers her remarkable that first time: the Warrior of old made incarnate, inexplicably sent to fuck him, shining and sexy and strong. That had been a shade compared to this, compared to the time between them, the knowledge they’ve collected of one another’s bodies, _hearts_ , in this very room, and he revels in the rhythm she sets, in the way she feels, the way she makes him feel, admires her, tells her every last thought that passes through his mind until she’s quaking, moaning loudly, and holding hard on his bicep as she kisses him, bruising him, watching him with wide-eyes and wider mouth, love and wonder so plain on her face he’s so lucky and drunk on it and he loves her — he loves her — _he loves her_ —

* * *

Catelyn welcomes Brienne with a hug that is tight and long and makes Brienne’s eyes ache with unshed tears. Then Arya hollers, “Lannister!” from across the courtyard and runs at him full tilt, Brienne wincing as he drops the bags just before Arya launches herself at him. The resulting scuffle is brief with Arya somehow ending up on Jaime’s back, directing him on where to carry their bags as he grumbles about her added weight.

Catelyn pulls Brienne aside as the two tromp inside. She glances after where they’ve disappeared, the first waver of doubt crossing her features before she clears her expression. “Brienne,” she says, and looks up at her curiously. “Do you think your… will Jaime be all right with Arya for a few minutes?”

Brienne finds herself chuckling, and Catelyn’s eyes light on her face, her expression easing into a soft smile, full of fondness. It makes Brienne feel uncomfortably _seen_ : everyone at the Shatterdome had known by the end. She and Jaime were anticipated, not at all a curiosity, and Brienne had found it unexpectedly welcome. Catelyn’s attention is wrong-footing her. She had told Catelyn, in email, that she was bringing Jaime as her partner, but the way Catelyn looks at her makes her feel awkward, her laughter fading away and she nods. “Jaime will be fine.”

“Good,” Catelyn says, then gestures for her to follow. It’s been some time since Brienne had been to Winterfell: she had spent every holiday here, such as they were during the war, until the last, but still the changes are noticeable. The other counties are finally starting to pay the Starks what they’re owed from the war, and the evidence is everywhere. In small ways, mostly. Windows which had been boarded are glass once more. Water stains are painted over, and cracks have been fixed. The old, close corridors have been aired, thoroughly cleaned, and no longer musty. It’s also in the atmosphere of the place, though. It’s everywhere now, they’d noticed it on the train and at the stations when they’d had to change: the world didn’t end, and there’s hope again.

Catelyn’s private study is much the same as it’s always been, though. A cozy sanctuary of dark woods and plush chairs. The desk had been Ned’s, Brienne knows. A well-loved piece of furniture, and not once has Brienne followed Catelyn into this room and not seen her press her fingertips to it, stroking them slowly across its surface. She does that now, and Brienne succumbs to a gentle tug of comfort; Winterfell had never been home exactly, but it was near enough for those years, and it’s nice to be back.

“I have a small gift for you,” Catelyn says, and she sits behind the desk, bending to retrieve something from a drawer.

“Really, Cat,” Brienne says quickly, her chest heating. “There’s no need —”

Catelyn only frowns at her, then slides a package across the desk. Brienne takes it, sits, and undoes the twine, opening the plain brown paper it’s wrapped in. “Oh,” she croaks, her throat aching, eyes prickling again. A few years ago they’d taken a photo at Sevenmas. Normally Brienne absented herself before that point in the evening, but she’d lost herself in a discussion with Robb, unusual for her then in and of itself. They’d all cajoled her into joining the family photo — this photo, framed now in the same wood found throughout Winterfell. Only six of them, then.

“We’ll take another one,” Catelyn says, in a gentle tone that also somehow brooks no argument. “Once everyone’s arrived.”

“Everyone?” Brienne manages, looking back at Catelyn.

“Everyone.” Catelyn smiles. “Sansa arrives later tonight. Robb and Lyanna tomorrow. A family reunion of sorts.”

“Oh,” Brienne says again.

“Everyone will be in the photo,” Catelyn continues firmly. “Gendry is around somewhere. Robb is bringing Jeyne. Sansa is bringing Yara. Lyanna, of course, has Elia and Rhaegar. And if you, that is, if Jaime is your…”

“He is,” Brienne says quickly, firmly in turn. Her head spins a bit, because it sounds like Catelyn is counting her as family, and Brienne — the thought is dizzying and she feels impossibly warm.

Catelyn’s lips thin for a beat, but then she nods. “Then Jaime will be in the photo, too,” she says, and she doesn’t sound upset about it, perhaps a little confused, but still something eases in Brienne’s chest. She says, “I… He’ll like that.”

Cat doesn’t seem to know what to do with this, and so only says, “He… isn’t what I expected.”

“No,” Brienne agrees, laughing. Catelyn’s expression eases once more into a smile.

* * *

He can’t remember the last time he rode a ferry. As a child perhaps? There’s no forgetting the sensation though, instantly familiar: the rumble under his feet; the gentle, almost dreamlike tip of the deck as the ship turns; the wind, cold no matter the time of year, carrying the salt that somehow limns lips, despite standing hundreds of feet above the water.

Of course, when he’d last taken a ferry, and certainly as a child, he’d only had his own lips to lick the salt from. He presses Brienne back, gentling as her back meets the railing, then rises to his toes, bracing a hand on her shoulder, on her hip, and passes his tongue, slow and unhurried, across her lips before slipping into her mouth to share. Salt. Tea. Chocolate. _Brienne_.

Brienne’s hands find his face, her fingers teasing the hair at his temples, her contented hum less a sound he hears and more a vibration shared through skin, and it’s lovely. He’s happy.

“An advisory to all passengers on deck that we will shortly be sounding the horn.”

They break apart. Jaime licks the tip of her nose for good measure, making her squirm and giggle. They cover their ears as the horn blows, and then Brienne turns, leans against the barrier and squints into the distance.

“It’s there,” she says, and she turns to him, grabs his hand and pulls him up against the railing beside her. “There.” She points, and Jaime squints. On the horizon there is the slightest darkening that _might_ be a land mass. He expects Brienne is correct, though. She usually is.

Still. He raises an eyebrow at her and says skeptically, “The smudge?”

“That smudge,” she says tartly, “Is my home.”

“I thought it would be bigger.”

“I could throw you over these railings,” she grouses, “No one would blame me.”

Jaime laughs, slides his arm across her back. “No one would blame you,” he agrees. “But you would miss me.”

“Maybe,” she says, then turns back towards Tarth. She actually rises to her toes and drops again, an unusual display of excitement from Brienne. His heart feels too big for his chest for a beat, then affection, _love_ , radiates out to ease the tension, to tease warm down his limbs until his fingers tighten at her waist with it. Her cheeks are pink from the wind, her eyes are bright and they pass a darker current of water into what Jaime thinks must be those of Tarth: their blue truly do look like Sapphires and match her eyes.

“Beautiful,” he says, and she nods without looking at him.

“Tarth is stunning.”

“I’m sure it is, but I meant you.”

She squirms a bit, as he knew she would. But she doesn’t demur. He kisses her shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! If tumblr’s your bag, come play with me: [@nossbean](http://nossbean.tumblr.com)! Sometimes I talk about other fics I'm working on, but mostly I have no idea what I'm doing, it's fun!
> 
> And a last shout out to Ramin Djawadi for providing a double soundtrack for the writing of this here fanfic, by composing unbelievably stunning soundtracks for both Game of Thrones and Pacific Rim. For folx interested in this kind of thing, the track I listened to by far the most throughout was [Cancelling the Apocalypse](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FT9XPqt4Fkw).


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